


The Hawke's Nest

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Het, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Past Abuse, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Kirkwall, there's a cocktail lounge filled with friends, budding relationships, and good drinks poured by a handsome dwarf. There's a rakish blonde on the piano, accompanied a singer with a voice like dark chocolate. Look hard enough and you can see a tattooed Tevinter elf waiting tables, and a redhead by the bar, drinking a whiskey sour. The Hawke's Nest may be busy, but they always have time for a new customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

From the air redolent with the juniper bite of gin, to the thick canopy of smoke and the wind chime tinkle of jazz piano, The Hawke’s Nest was a relic of the roaring twenties. Tucked between a popular coffee shop and a restaurant advertising “Authentic Antivan Cuisine,” it was out of place, pretentious, and the owner liked it that way. The Hawke’s Nest had class; the waiters wore tailored suits with bow ties, while the hostess and waitresses wore slinky black gowns and convincing costume jewelry. The bartender, stout and barrel-chested, with a liar’s smile and genuine eyes, mixed the best gin and tonics and martinis for miles, while the dark, dusky-eyed singer sat on the piano, making love to the microphone, holding it close to her painted lips while she sang “Summertime” in a low, slow, sultry murmur.

There were other places to drink in Kirkwall; sports bars and classy upscale clubs, even a Fereldan pub, complete with paintings of Mabari and a wall of royal portraiture, but The Hawke’s Nest had the unique ability to attract a clientele that was uncomfortable in other establishments. It helped that the owner had no reservations about hiring elves and dwarves, but there was just something about the place, some crackle of ozone in the air, some extra intoxication in the drinks that kept the little cocktail lounge busy every night.

Generally customers trickled in slow, one at a time, looking around like they didn’t know where they were but figuring that they might as well stay. Bethany always greeted them with a flutter of thick lashes and a cherry red smile, tilting her head so her hair fell just so, asking them if they’d like a table or a seat at the bar. Her sweet face was generally enough to make even the most dubious person stay. By eleven o’clock, The Hawke’s Nest was packed with quiet, contemplative customers watching the pianist as his long, delicate fingers flew across the keys. Marian Hawke, for whom the lounge was named, wound around the small tables, dressed in slinky red and sequins, dim candlelight illuminating a pretty, sarcastic face with a once broken and poorly healed nose, inspiring curiosity, comfort, and more than a few marriage proposals. She accepted one of them, and though the diamond on her finger was modest, the sly smiles directed towards the dwarf behind the bar were enough to send a message to any potential suitor.

Saturday nights always put The Hawke’s Nest into the black, but this time the lounge was so busy that the heat from the customers overpowered the air conditioning, leaving the well-dressed wait staff with sweat rolling down their necks. Varric mixed more iced drinks than usual, complaining only to Marian about the tragedy involved in watering down good scotch, and when Isabela got on stage, she was wearing a light silky gown slit up to her thigh for the comfort alone.

Sitting at the piano, honey-colored hair tied back into a stubby knot, the pianist dragged his fingers up the scales, the span of his skillful hands stretching over an octave, giving him a boost to his natural talent. He played by feel alone, his eyes half-closed most of the time, though he sometimes looked curiously into the audience or up at Isabela when she sat on his piano. She stretched out like an alley cat while she sang, one arm bracing her on the lid as she swung her legs onto it, the slit in her gown falling open to expose her thighs, her skin like bronze silk in the dim lighting.

“Let’s hear it for Anders on piano,” she said when she sat up after her first number, daintily clapping while holding the microphone in one hand. The crowd clapped, but not for him.

Bethany leaned against the host podium, smiling apologetically at Merrill when she came in looking for Carver, but she straightened up when a small, pale-eyed elf came in. He was dressed well in green and black, and specifically asked for a table near the stage. Bethany peered around the corner into the lounge to see that Jethann had just cleared a table right next to the piano, and beckoned the elf to follow her.

“How did you hear about The Hawke’s Nest?” she asked, a standard question for anyone she didn’t recognize. She pulled a matchbook out of her pocket to relight a snuffed candle, smiling as he took a seat.

“I’ve know about it for a while,” he began, his eyes flickering from her to the stage as he pushed back his long hair, gold earrings glinting on his tapered ear. “Never really had the nerve to come.” He tore his attention from the stage, where Bethany assumed he was watching Isabela writhe across the piano where she was doing an admirable version of “Can’t Take That Away From Me.”

“It doesn’t take any nerve to come in here; we’re a very welcoming establishment,” Bethany said with a professional smile, counting the hoops dangling off of his ear when he looked again to the stage. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A whiskey sour, please.” He was polite, at least, though he avoided her eyes. Bethany nodded and backed away, shimmying through the tight walkway to get to the bar.

“What’s the order, Sunshine?” Varric asked, slinging the towel he’d been using to dry glasses over his shoulder. “If you tell me someone else wants me to water down top shelf booze you might just break my heart.”

“Whiskey sour for Isabela’s new admirer,” Bethany said, nodding her head towards the table in the front. “Elves sure seem to have a thing for her.” They both glanced to the end of the bar, where Fenris was smiling uncomfortably as a tipsy patron hit on him.

“Might just be the other way around. I’ll have him send your whiskey sour out, so you’d better get back to the podium before the boss finds out you’re walking around.”

“Oooh, right, the boss,” Bethany crooked her fingers into air quotations before winking and walking off, the clicking of her heels swallowed up by the murmur of the crowd.

From the piano, Anders glanced up and off the stage, beaming internally at the packed house. By the looks on their faces, most of them were just there to watch Isabela, but that was fine with him. An audience is an audience, and a good night is a good night, no matter who’s responsible, whether it’s Marian walking around making the crowd feel comfortable, or Isabela’s legs, or Varric’s drinks that drew them in, the air was still electric and full of satisfaction. On his third glance out into the crowd, he noticed that the elf sitting in the front, who had graciously accepted his drink from Fenris sometime during Anders’ second glance, was looking at him. He winked, and the elf turned away.

Isabela closed the set with “My Funny Valentine,” belting it out like her life depended on it, sliding off the piano and taking a few steps into the crowd, bending to meet eyes with patrons at the first couple of tables, including the elf who was well into his second drink. She crooned to him, pouting her painted lips and reaching out to stroke his chin with one finger, tilting his head up towards her before backing onto the stage again, leaning against the piano as she held the last note, bringing the house down yet again.

“You’re always such a showboat,” Anders said once they were backstage, peeling off his jacket and standing in front of the air conditioning vent.

“I know,” Isabela replied, her voice a husky purr as she squeezed past him, her breasts brushing his back, the chuckle in her throat shamelessly sexual, teasing both him and Fenris, who had just walked in. Her dark eyes were playful when she turned to look at him. Fenris just glared at Anders, then backed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Isabela laughed.

“You two are insufferable,” Anders muttered as he untied his tie, letting it hang loose over his shoulders as he unbuttoned the first button on his starched white shirt. “I wish you’d cut that out; he always takes it out on me when you flirt, and I really don’t want anything to do with him.”

“Oh really? Here I thought you were an elf-fancier with the way you were gawking at the one sitting up near the front.”

“What can I say? I like pretty people.” Anders slumped into a chair and stretched his shoulders, cracking them, picking his cell phone out of the drawer while Isabela changed behind one of the folding screens.

“Elf-fancier,” she said again, sing-song and teasing.

“You’re one to talk,” Anders said, scoffing, shoving his cell phone into his pocket, his mood sour now that he’d read the text message canceling his third date this month. He sighed. It wasn’t like they’d had much in common anyway, but it had been nice while it lasted.

“Oooh, she dumped you, didn’t she?” asked Isabela as she came out from behind the folding screen, dressed down in tight jeans and a band t-shirt, still wearing her stilettos from on stage. “Well, don’t worry about it. Do you want to come get some dinner with Bethany and I?”

“I don’t need to be third wheel,” Anders said, standing and taking the elastic out of his hair, combing it back with his fingers. “Thanks for the offer though. I think I’m going to go outside and have a smoke.”

“Suit yourself.” Isabela shrugged as he pushed open the door to the alleyway, tapping a cigarette out of his pack.

He leaned against the cool brick and took a long drag, exhaling through his nose as he closed his eyes to the night. Nothing like rejection to ruin a night.

“Do you have a light?”

Anders opened his eyes, turned, then realized he needed to look down to meet the gaze of the elf who’d been drinking whiskey sours near the stage. He had an accent, a light unfamiliar melody behind his words, and it took Anders a moment to answer him. The elf took the matchbook from him and struck one, holding a thin, dark papered cigarette between his lips as he lit it.

“Thanks.”

“I saw you out there; did you enjoy the set?” Anders asked. A spicy, unfamiliar scent rose from the elf’s cigarette, and Anders looked at him curiously, trying to get a better idea of what it was.

“It was good; you don’t hear jazz piano like that these days.” The elf’s voice was soft, and he spoke briefly while he smoked, keeping his gaze away from Anders’ when he did.

“I’m surprised you even noticed it with Isabela on stage.”

“She’s good too. You play every night?”

“Most nights, they have a full band come in on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I’m off then.”

“Maybe I’ll see you again then,” the elf said, raising a hand as he started to walk away, and before Anders could answer, light from the dressing room spilled into the alleyway.

“Come on Anders, we’re going out for dinner,” said Marian, the look on her face sweet, but no nonsense. It was not up for discussion.

“Just you and I? Won’t Varric get suspicious?” Anders asked as he flicked his cigarette onto the ground and stomped it out, glancing down the empty alleyway in the direction that the elf had gone. Marian only rolled her eyes. “I’m coming, I’m coming. You know, if you guys do this every time someone cancels a date on me, you’re going to spend all your money on restaurants.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Marian said, and Anders smiled. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He grabbed his jacket and followed her out of the dressing room. The lounge was empty now except for Jethann and Fenris, clearing tables and sweeping, and his footsteps felt loud as he walked towards the door where Bethany was clutching a small purse and Varric was sitting on a plush couch, counting the tips from the evening.

“So you’re all here for the pity party?” Anders asked as he slipped on his jacket. “Can’t a man have a disappointing love life in peace?”

“Not when you’re among friends, Blondie,” said Varric from the couch, and Anders smiled a little more.

By the time they were all walking to a nearby diner, Varric’s arm around Marian’s waist, Isabela and Bethany talking like excited sisters, Anders had more or less forgotten his troubles. As they pushed open the door and Sigrun greeted them with familial warmth and a smile the size of Kirkwall, he’d even pushed the elf out of his mind, content to sit with friends and get lost in their lives, even if his own wasn’t working out the way he wanted.

 _It could be worse_ , he reminded himself as he squeezed between Bethany and Marian, rolling his eyes at attempts to set him up with Sigrun.

_It could be worse, and really, it’s not all that bad at all._


	2. Chapter 2

Across from the bed in Marian Hawke’s studio apartment was a wall of plate glass windows looking out over Kirkwall. The view was stunning, and on clear mornings Marian sat at the small kitchen table with a cup of strong tea and lemon, looking towards the Waking Sea where ships docked and departed. As beautiful as this was, the apartment had the misfortune of facing east, and every morning, long before Marian was ready to wake, those big windows let light pour over her bed, over her face, and drag her, unwilling, out of her sleep.

Finding curtains to cover an entire wall of windows had been a difficult chore, and eventually Marian had to rely on the Hawke ingenuity and tendency towards self-reliance. Carver had stood atop a large ladder, grumbling about Marian’s decadence as he screwed in the braces for the massive curtain rod, thick red curtains sewn by Bethany piled on the floor, waiting to do the job for which they had been made. Despite any inconvenience to her siblings, it was a success, and now those windows were covered until Marian was ready to start the day.

Today, however, those big curtains were drawn back and tied off and the apartment was flooded with light: golden, persistent, and bright. Marian groaned and pulled a pillow over her head, pressing her face firmly into the mattress out of frustration. As The Hawke’s Nest grew in popularity, Marian found herself getting far less sleep than she’d like, and she really liked her sleep. She threw off the pillow with a grunt and stared at the high ceiling, stretching, her hands pressing lightly against the exposed brick behind her bed.

“Rise and shine, Waffles.”

“I hate you,” Marian groaned, throwing a bare arm over her eyes to block out both the light and the image of Varric at the edge of the bed, handsome, smiling, and already dressed for the day. It was then that she noticed the smell of bacon and coffee, and she peeked out from behind her arm at him, grumpy, but coming around.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Varric said, and the smile on his face was brighter than all the sunlight in Kirkwall. Marian sat up, and Varric bent to kiss her forehead, brushing back her bangs with his big hand. She leaned into it, tilting her head to meet his lips with her own, smiling against them, resting her forehead against his.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said softly, lifting her head to kiss his large, crooked nose, dragging her fingers through his hair, mussing the neat style by pulling out his elastic and brushing her nails down the back of his neck.

“Now that’s more like it,” Varric said with a soft chuckle, resisting when Marian tried to pull him back into bed. “No, you’re not getting away with that today, breakfast is ready and we’re going to get started at a respectable time.”

“I used to never get up before noon,” Marian said as she slid out of bed, adjusting her camisole, pulling it down over her bare skin. She’d find the panties that went with the set later on, tangled up in the sheets. “You’ve been a terrible influence.”

“I couldn’t hope for a better compliment, milady,” Varric said, swatting her playfully on the ass as she stood. He then sauntered into the kitchenette where the table was already set with coffee, omelets, and fresh fruit. Marian grumbled as she walked to the bathroom, but she was smiling so wide that her cheeks hurt.

“We did great last night,” Varric said once they had finally sat down, Marian sipping coffee slowly as she watched the sun rise over Kirkwall. “Best Saturday night we’ve had since opening.”

“You say that every Saturday.” Marian stabbed a piece of melon with her fork and put it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Bethany said she almost had to turn people away last night, maybe it’s time that we put in a few more tables and hire some new wait staff.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Varric said as he pulled the business section out of the Kirkwall Gazette and scanned the front page. “Broody still needs some time to settle in, and I’m more inclined to bump Daisy up to full time rather than hiring someone new.” Varric lifted his coffee cup to his lips and drank deeply, then pushed up his reading glasses with his thumb. “Feisty can probably take on a few more hours too.”

“Feisty?” Marian raised a brow; keeping track of what Varric preferred to call people was not easy, but she had learned most of the nicknames. It was when he introduced new ones that she had trouble.

“Jethann,” he said briefly. “Customers like him only just slightly less than he likes them.”

“It suits him.” She smiled, and the corner of his lips curled up in response. “Merrill has a second job at the florist during the day, so I’m not sure how many more hours she can take on. I can talk to Jethann tonight though.”

“Junior?” Varric asked, standing to refill his coffee.

“Starting at the Academy with Nathanial next week.”

“Right, Junior’s a military man now.” Varric chuckled lowly as he poured, lifting the pot towards Marian, who shook her head no. “So Daisy’s out of the question, and Feisty can only take on about ten more hours before he starts picking up overtime.” Varric sat sideways in the chair, resting one bare foot on his opposite knee, rapping his fingers against his thigh. “I’ll write up a few ads. How’s Sunshine doing, would she like a few nights off?”

“Nate and Carver will be in town on the weekends.” Marian pushed aside her empty coffee cup and picked up the slice of an orange, the sharp, citrus oils sticking to her fingers as she peeled the peel and pith away from the fruit. “She mentioned being disappointed that she’d be working the whole time.” Varric nodded, his face thoughtful and serious as he folded the paper in half and tapped it on the table.

“So we’ll have to hire someone. What about your cousin?” Varric offered Marian the remaining sections of the paper. She took it, flipping open the front page and looking over the headlines.

“Fabian? I’d have to talk to him, but he’d make a great host.”

“From what I remember about meeting him, it seemed like he had all the Hawke charm that Junior missed out on. You know how I feel about hiring family, so if he’s at all interested, let’s get him in as soon as we can.” Marian nodded and rolled up the paper, setting it to the side of the small table as she sat back, raking her short hair back. “Jethann and Fabian could share host duties when Bethany is off, and Fabian could pick up some wait staff hours. It’s perfect. I’ll call him today.”

“What about the fitting?” asked Varric, glancing over his reading glasses at her, watching, with great amusement, the color rising in her cheeks. His Marian, who belonged only to herself, blushed for no one but him. She did it when he dropped to one knee and made a nervous joke about barely needing to bend, and he did it when he suggested naming the business after her.

“That’s not until later this week.”

“And the planner?”

“Meeting him on Tuesday,” Marian said, standing and taking her plate to the sink, scraping off uneaten dregs into the garbage disposal. “He’s trying to talk me into red Orelsian roses again.”

“They would go well with your dress.”

“I still think we should wait a few weeks for the fitting,” Marian said, quietly looking past the tile mosaic backsplash behind the sink, seeing instead the pile of medical paperwork tucked into the file folder in the “office” area of the studio; physicals, fertility tests, consultations for in vitro fertilization. “Just in case…”

Varric’s brow furrowed as he pressed his lips together and slid out of the chair, picking up the empty cups and carrying them into the kitchen. He put them on the counter and his arms around her waist, pressing his cheek into her shoulder. “We’ve pushed things off ‘just in case’ too many times. We’ll lose the venue if we keep doing that.” He paused; this was the difficult part. “If you’re having second thoughts…”

“I’m not!” Marian’s voice had a hard edge to it, and she put her hands over Varric’s, lacing her fingers with his and squeezing tight. “I’m not,” she said, softer, pressing her lips together.

“You knew that this would be a possibility.” Varric squeezed her hands right back, encompassing them with his big paws.

“I know, and it’s not the most important thing in my life, it’s really not.” Marian gently pushed out of his grasp and turned around, pressing the small of her back into the counter top as she cupped Varric’s head and kissed his forehead. His brows were furrowed, concern ill-suited his content face, and she rested her forehead against his. “I love you. I’m just…every bride to be is allowed cold feet, right?”

“I could massage them and warm’em right up for you.” Varric smiled, stroking her cheek with his knuckles, his lips on hers in a whisper of a kiss, his eyes as warm as summer. “If you need more time, that’s okay, but you let me know so I have time to change the date.” Marian kissed the top of his head, then rested her cheek against it, nodding gently.

“I still think we should just go to Antiva and elope,” Marian said, releasing Varric as she crossed the apartment, peeling off her camisole and stepping into a pair of cotton panties. “This whole nonsense with the venue, the dress, the Orlesian roses…”

“Was all your mother’s idea,” Varric reminded her, filling the sink with water to let the dishes soak. “You know that I’d be more than happy to take you to the Viscount’s Palace and sign a few documents, but your mom wants a fairy tale wedding with all the trimmings. If you want to tell Leandra there won’t be a wedding cake and bow ties for all of the groomsmen, you go ahead. Just make sure I’m somewhere outside of Kirkwall when you do it.”

Marian sighed as she tugged her jeans up around her hips. “I hate that you’re right about this,” she said, digging in the dresser for a t-shirt. “Mom would see me hung if I denied her that perfect wedding. You know she’s already looking at dresses for Bethany?”

“Sunshine? I thought she was holding out for tall, dark, and dour to finish at military academy.”

“That will never stop my mom.” Marian combed her hair back with her fingers and glanced at herself in the mirror above the dresser. Hair still short, nose still crooked, eyes still strikingly blue—she looked just like herself, not like a woman who would be getting married in a few months, or one who had been trying and failing to get pregnant for nearly six. She turned and leaned against the dresser, watching Varric slipping on his boots.

“We’ll make it work, Waffles. We always do,” he said, and Marian couldn’t help but smile. If anyone could tame Leandra, get Bethany to admit that she was in love with Nathaniel, and wrangle her cousin Fabian, it would be Varric Tethras, and that’s why she was going to marry him.


	3. Chapter 3

Isabela refused to practice out of costume, claiming that the persona was more in the smokey eye shadow and patent leather stilettos than it was in her voice. She arrived early afternoon, carrying her dress in a large garment bag, clicking across the floor in those impossible heels, her hips crooning with the melody of her stride.

“Oh I can sing just fine,” she said as she lined her eyes, glancing at Fenris’ reflection in the mirror, giving him a wink with the eye that was already done. “But without all this, I’m not a diva.”

“What does it matter?” Fenris asked as he leaned against the wall, just out of Isabela’s reach. If she was melody, he was staccato, sharp-edged and hard. If she was a flowing river, he was the unbending tree it rushed around. “Your voice is the same.”

“Nobody comes here for a drink, a bit of piano, and jazz standards; they come for the experience, and I intend to give them one to remember.” Isabela pulled her hair back with a rhinestone clip, then brushed dark waves forward over her bare shoulders.

Fenris nodded, though he didn’t understand. Tentative, skittish, he took a step forward and brushed his fingers over Isabela’s hair, smoothing it, unwinding one curl so it laid perfectly on her dark shoulder. She took his wrist in her hand, long nails painted cherry red, and brought his fingertips to her lips. Isabela kissed them slowly, her lipstick, matching the nail polish, rubbing off on his skin.

“One more for good luck, darling,” she said, and turned, lifting their hands over their heads as if he were going to spin her while they danced.

“I told you,” he said, but trailed off, his gaze falling to her bare neck, her ample cleavage, and he wriggled his hand out of hers. “I haven’t had enough time.”

Isabela heaved a dramatic sigh that overpowered the understanding in her eyes. She turned to the mirror and reapplied her lipstick. “Is Anders here yet?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Fenris said, his voice going hard as he stared at his fingertips, rubbing them together with his thumb, turning away from Isabela so he could leave. The lipstick was called “Starlet,” but Fenris thought, ears twitching uncomfortably, that it looked more like blood. “I’ll tell him you’re back here if I see him.” His voice was flat as he left, and once he was in the back, looking at the stock of alcohol, he put his fingers to his lips and pressed them there firmly, the shiver running down his spine making him feel filthy. He bit down on his forefinger, sighing around it, leaning his forehead against the wall and growling.

Isabela likes Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, and Aretha Franklin, and while her voice will never be that clear, that smokey, or that soulful, Isabela prides herself for having a talent for slipping into the shoes of the masters (the tough old broads, she calls them) in mannerism, in presence, and in the way she moves. Her rendition of “Summertime” brings down the house. She can bring a sleepy, quiet crowd to life with a few verses of “I Got Rhythm,” and when she throws in new songs, contemporary fluff with a jazz make-over, she shines.

When Varric found Isabela years ago, she was busking, sitting on a flattened, folded cardboard box with her legs crossed, an old guitar balanced poorly on her knees while she strummed a few major chords, smiling at the people who tossed a few coins in her guitar case like they’d made her day.

“It’s hard to get a job,” she’d said when he bought her a cup of coffee and sat with her, rolling the cup between her hands to warm her fingers. “No degree, no experience, no savings, no resume.” She ticked off her ‘accomplishments’ on her calloused fingers, sardonic but upbeat, tipping an imaginary hat at someone who tossed a dollar into her guitar case.

“But you’ve got a voice,” Varric said, in a tone that made Isabela wonder if he wasn’t plotting something. She learned quickly that Varric was always plotting something.

“Everyone has a voice.”

“But not everyone has a _voice_.”

Isabela looked at her hands. Those callouses were long gone, the nails grown out, and nobody at The Hawke’s Nest would know that three years ago, she was sitting in the subway station twelve hours a day, calling it a good day if she had enough money for a meal, calling it a better day if she had a couple of dollars to put gas in her car, so she could run the heat for a while before falling asleep curled up in the back seat.

“Could have been worse baby,” she says to her reflection, wiping away a smudge of lipstick with her pinkie finger. “Could have been worse.”

“I thought you’d be back here.” Isabela jerked her head up to see Marian standing in the doorway, closing it, a bright smile on her sarcastic face. “Anders is late again, isn’t he?”

“You know how musicians are,” Isabela straightened up, adjusted her dress, and picked up a thick gold necklace. It was fake, but it was a good fake, and it glittered under the dim stage lights just like the real thing. “He’ll stumble in here a few hours from now, all disheveled and hungover from entertaining all those groupies.”

“I’m sure,” Marian quirked an ironic smile. “We’ve got your set recorded if you want to practice without him.”

“Oh, give the poor man another few minutes,” Isabela said, crossing the room to put a hand on Marian’s cheek and give the other a quick kiss, leaving behind a perfect red lip print. “I got your message, canceling the fitting again?” she asked gently, trying to meet Marian’s eyes. “Leandra’s going to hang you.”

“I know,” Marian said, her lips pressed firmly together. “I rescheduled it for next week, and I won’t be canceling this time.”

“No chance?” Isabela asked, pulling Marian into a gentle hug.

“No chance.”

“Oh honey, I’m sorry.” Isabela tightened her arms around her friend, stroking her short hair when she rested her head on her shoulder. “Are you having second thoughts since…”

“No, no.” Marian patted Isabela on the shoulder as she backed out of the hug. “It would have been nice, it really would, but it doesn’t change how I feel about Varric. We’ll figure it out after the wedding.”

“Good girl,” Isabela ruffled her short hair and turned again to her vanity, picking up her microphone. “Besides, no cocktails for nine months? I think I’d shank someone.” Marian smiled weakly, and stepped aside as Anders, disheveled as Isabela had predicted, though not hungover, meekly pushed his way into the room.

“I know, I know, I’m late again.”

“Actually darling, you’re just in time,” Isabela said, winking at Marian as she threw an arm around Anders’ shoulders and dragged him out of the dressing room.

Fenris watched Isabela sit on the side of the grand piano, crooning to an empty house, absently wiping a glass clean with a soft towel, pressing his lips together as he had a long mental conversation with her, trying to find a way to explain himself without sounding broken, or sick, or weak. It was a familiar conversation; he’s had it at least a hundred times, and never said a word out loud.

“You’re killing me, Broody,” Varric tapped Fenris on the arm, holding up a bottle of gin. “How am I supposed to teach you how to mix a drink if you’re off in the Fade all the time?”

“My apologies,” Fenris tore his attention away from Isabela as she hit a high note, forcing himself to look at the bottles that Varric had spread out on the bar. “My thoughts are elsewhere.”

“That’s an understatement,” Varric said with a chuckle, setting the bottle of gin onto the counter next to the glass. “Now this is the most basic of basics here; the gin and tonic.” Fenris nodded, picking up a small note pad and carefully penciling down the name of the drink while Varric watched. “You ought to be a doctor with that handwriting.”

“I wouldn’t make a good doctor,” Fenris murmured, scribbling out a poor misspelling of the word tonic and writing it again.

“It’s a joke Broody, you’re supposed to smile, at least.”

“Ah,” Fenris said, forcing a smile as he looked expectantly at Varric, pencil poised.

“Are you doing all right? You seem pretty distracted,” Varric said, leaning against the bar as he watched Fenris’ eyes dart away from meeting his, his jaw setting. “Look, if this is about that Tevinter woman—”

“No!” Fenris gripped the small notepad so tightly that it crumpled. “No,” he said, more calmly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “It’s nothing, I simply didn’t get a lot of sleep.” Varric raised an eyebrow at him, not even pretending to believe him. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Maybe you should,” said Varric, but he let the subject drop. “So we do our gin and tonics with a one to one ratio. This is a highball glass, you want to put about six ice cubes in there, but don’t worry about that, just make sure you’ve got more than one or two.” Varric paused as Fenris furtively scribbled instructions onto his notepad. “Relax, this is an easy one. Fill the glass halfway with tonic water, add gin until the liquid reaches the bottom rim here, and stick a lime wedge in it. That’s all.”

“Seems…simple.”

“It is, and luckily it’s popular, so instead of wasting time muddling, shaking and straining, we can just pour and go.”

“Mmm, but if it’s this easy, why do people order it?” Fenris picked up the bottle of gin and held it to his nose, wrinkling it at the scent of juniper. “It seems like it would be cheaper to just make it at home.”

“It’s not about the drink, it’s about the experience,” Varric said, his lips curling into a smile as he took the bottle away from Fenris.

“It seems like everything is,” Fenris said, glancing again at Isabela as the music stopped, and Anders shooed her off of the lid of the piano.

“Life’s an experience, Broody.”

“I’m sure,” said Fenris, glancing down at his notepad before setting it on the bar, leaning against it with his back facing the house. “It might be about the Tevinter woman,” he admitted, looking at Varric, who was, for once, nearly eye to eye with him because of the platform built behind the back. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, raking back his hair as he sighed. “I thought it would get…easier.”

“Still feeling like you need to run, huh?”

“It’s been years, I should be…better.”

“Says who?” Varric asked, stepping off the platform so he could put the bottle back on the shelf at the back of the bar. “Last time I checked, there weren’t any guidelines about how fast you’re supposed to recover from abuse.”

Fenris set his jaw and grabbed the tonic water, bending to shove it into the small cooler under the counter. He stayed crouched after shutting the door, grinding his teeth. He flinched when Varric put his big hand on his back lightly.

“Why don’t you take tonight off?”

“No, I’m fine,” Fenris said, glaring when Varric scoffed. “Besides,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to miss Isabela’s set.”

“She’d understand if you told her,” Varric said gently, taking his hand off of Fenris’ back and picking up the highball glass he’d used for demonstration. Fenris straightened out, looking over the counter at the stage where Isabela and Anders were squabbling about where she should sit during a song. Fenris pressed his hand to his mouth and dragged it down over his chin, staring.

“I don’t want her to understand; I want it to have never happened.”

“Well, since you and I have yet to perfect time travel, understanding is probably what you should shoot for.” Varric picked up a towel and wiped down the bar. “Not a single one of us is as put together as we look, and none of us are as broken as we feel. That means you too, Broody.”

Fenris stared at him for a moment, looking past the slick-backed hair and pierced ears, the warm eyes and big nose, looking like he was searching for something just beyond him, beyond all of them. Then he laughed, put a hand over his face and sighed into it before abruptly lifting the hinged side of the bar and walking out into the house.

As Varric watched, he approached the stage, where both Anders and Isabela stopped arguing to stare at him, and beckoned her backstage with him while Anders protested.

“What’s he up to?” Marian asked Varric as she came out from the back, a long list of inventory in her hand.

“I think he might be testing out the difference between living and experiencing,” said Varric, slipping his hand over the small of Marian’s back, taking a moment, taking all the moments he could as she bent down to kiss him on the forehead.

“Adding psychologist to your resume?” she asked, cradling his head when he nuzzled into her kiss.

“Oh it’s always been there, it’s just listed as ‘Tethras,’ so I can see why you’d miss it.”

As Marian laughed, Isabela excused herself and followed Fenris backstage. When he spoke it was soft, understated, and he looked at her with eyes like dying coals. Something was smoldering deep within him, and that’s what interested her; not the tattoos on his neck, his chin, and his hands, and not the white hair. Those were novel, but they weren’t a mystery, and she did so love a mystery.

“Changed your mind about that good luck kiss?” Isabela asked, checking her make-up in the mirror. There was no chance it would have been mussed, not after half a set’s worth of practice, but it gave her a chance to watch him in the mirror. The way he moved was strange, smooth, graceful, like he would have made a perfect dancer, but he kept himself at arm’s length from most people, hyper-aware of his surroundings, those dark green eyes always darting. Sometimes though, when he didn’t think she was looking, a measure of calm would come over him and he would just look at her.

“No.” Fenris watched as she turned, thin brow raised. “But I was hoping that you might be free on Friday night.”

“Oh, were you?” Isabela smiled, her gaze homing in on the tips of his twitching ears. “I didn’t have anything planned, but my calender is always open for you.”

“Would you like to go to dinner after work?” he asked, and his ears were pink, but his wide mouth had curved into the ghost of a smile.

“Of course,” Isabela said, watching the tension drain out of him as visibly as if it had been water. She beckoned him and gave him an exaggeratedly slow kiss on the cheek. He didn’t flinch. “You know where to find me,” she said, winking, turning back to the mirror as he walked out of the room.

While Marian crouched lower to give her fiancé a proper kiss, Isabela added “Dinner with Fenris” to her schedule, and they both smiled soft, private smiles, taking that moment to slip inside themselves and push away any fear, any worries, and just revel in the feeling of having something to smile about.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders knew he was the only one who appreciated the polished black sheen of the grand piano squatting like a great beast in the center of the stage. With a soft microfiber cloth, he buffed out the huge hand print that Isabela had left when she hopped off of it. She saw the piano, but she didn’t know how to tame it, how to stroke its keys like it was a fussy cat, and how if you did it wrong, it would make you pay for it. It wasn’t something you learned, this appreciation, this understanding; it was something you were born with and cultivated over years of hard practice. He had played more scales than he would have preferred to count, lost more hours on that bench than he could imagine, but in the end it was worth it. His fingers moved with fluidity; the keys felt like old friends and the pedals were firm as the earth under his feet. He was at home in front of it, at ease, and most of all, unaware of the constant throbbing in the back of his mind, that pull and tug that felt like something was missing, like he was supposed to be digging his fingers into the Fade and pulling something out.

That was dangerous, that feeling, and if playing the piano made it go away, it was a Maker-given gift.

But it was getting harder. He’d set a house plant on fire last night, inadvertently, and spent the rest of the night disposing of it, running scales, and trying to forget about that surge of power that had rushed through him, intoxicating like good wine, like an orgasm, like kissing a lover and feeling the flutter of desire. All of those things were safer than sparks from his fingertips, and he did his best to drown himself in them.

It was difficult though; his alcohol tolerance was now so high that to dampen that desire he had to drink enough to nearly make himself pass out. Constant rejection from potential lovers wasn’t helping either. Instead, depression was creeping, pushing past the strange buzz in the back of his head, pushing past the music to sit on his tongue, bitter like lemons.

He stole off of the stage, ducked through the dressing room, and crept out of the back door, tapping a cigarette out of its pack and putting the filter to his mouth.

“What a coincidence.”

Anders turned, unlit cigarette hanging off his lips, and he had to look down to see the speaker. It was the elf from a couple nights before, the one that was sitting at the front of the house drinking whiskey sours. This time he got a better look at him because he wasn’t hidden by stage lights or the dim dark of the alleyway. Though he was dressed down in jeans and a well-fitting jacket, he was beautiful in the distinct way of elves, thin and small with long copper hair, pale, over-large eyes, and delicate ears that tapered into points, decorated with gold earrings. For a moment Anders just looked at them. Most elves played their ears down, wore their hair in ways to cover them the best they could, and he had even seen advertisements for plastic surgery designed to hack off the tip and sculpt a more rounded ear. There was something almost challenging about the earrings; they demanded attention. Anders realized that while he was staring, the elf had pulled out one of those brown-papered cigarettes and placed it between his lips. He took his lighter out of his pocket and proffered it to the elf.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it, rolling his thumb over the little wheel until a flame sparked to life. The scent of spice filled the alley as smoke rose. Anders took the lighter when he returned it, using it to light his own.

“What are those anyway?” Anders asked, taking a long drag from his cigarette, closing his eyes as the nicotine had its effect, relaxing him, killing that antsy desire for now at least.

“Antivan,” the elf said briefly, extending his arm away from himself and Anders as he flicked the ashes off of the end of his cigarette.

“I thought there was a ban on goods from Antiva,” Anders said, glancing at the elf again. He certainly didn’t look Antivan, and his accent was all wrong.

“There is, but the Crows don’t pay much attention to embargoes.” The elf smiled, and Anders turned to face him, looking him over properly, cocking his head curiously when the elf just smiled, closed his eyes, and took a long drag on his cigarette.

“But you’re not Antivan,” Anders said. It was a statement, not a question, but the elf nodded in agreement.

“I know someone who is. A courier,” he said, and when he looked at Anders again, his wide eyes were intense. “You’re playing tonight, right?” Anders nodded, and the elf smiled. “Good. I was hoping you were.”

Anders opened his mouth to ask why, but stopped when he felt it; that inexplicable pull, sharp like a needle stick. He squeezed his eyes shut, raised his hand and coughed into it to stop himself from speaking. He was right. It  _was_  getting worse. No less than three months ago cigarettes helped, but now, through the soothing haze of nicotine, it came to the forefront just as strongly as if he hadn’t just taken a drag.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, just…have a migraine coming on,” Anders said, dropping his hand and shoving it into his pocket. “I should get back inside and finish warming up.”

“I have a friend who gets those,” the elf said with a genuine note of apology in his voice. “Says it’s like being stabbed in the back of the head.” Anders winced at the description; it hit far too close to home. “Thanks for the light,” he said, lifting his still smoking cigarette in a mock toast.

“No problem. Seems like you might want to invest in a lighter though. Hanging out in alleys hoping some poor fool will come out and offer you a match seems like a pretty inefficient way to have a smoke,” Anders said, and smiled weakly at his poor attempt at humor. His head throbbed, and the memory of his spider plant bursting into flame crept uncomfortably into the forefront of his mind.

“Maybe I’m just looking to share the moment,” the elf suggested, and though Anders had turned towards the door, he could feel his gaze. “Hey.” Anders paused, brow raised, hoping whatever the elf had to say was going to be brief. He had to do something to get that nagging desire out of his head. He couldn’t just reach out into the Fade. He couldn’t just do magic like it was a thing that actually existed outside of story books. People would think he was crazy.

“Do you want to go get a cup of coffee after your set?”

The buzz in Anders’ head flatlined for a brief moment, and he sighed in relief at the astounding clarity, wishing he knew what had stopped it so he could replicate it again when necessary. He smiled at the elf; it was always exciting to have someone show interest, and he let that flutter of excitement run through him, warm and comforting despite the hard edges. With that tugging tingle of desire out of his mind, he could properly think over the elf’s proposition, and quickly decided that going to have coffee with a gorgeous (if not somewhat unusual) man was definitely something he wanted to do.

“I think I’ll be up for coffee,” Anders said, his eyes once again traveling the length of those tapered ears, counting the earrings: four hoops, two studs. He wondered if the piercings hurt. “I’ll catch you at about midnight then…?” he trailed off, unsure of what to call him, though he wasn’t much bothered by the fact that he didn’t know his name. The elf slipped his hand into his pocket and brought it out with a business card, passing it delicately to Anders.

“Theron Mahariel,” he said. “I’ll be back here after the show, but you can call me if I’m not.” Theron smiled, putting his lit cigarette again to his lips, though it was almost entirely burned down. “I’m looking forward to it.” With that, he stepped away from the wall and began walking out of the alley, waving absently to Anders as he did. For a moment, Anders just watched him as he dropped the butt of his cigarette and stomped it out, putting his hands in his jacket pockets as he disappeared around the corner. He then glanced at the business card as he reentered the Hawke’s Nest, running his thumb over the slightly raised lettering. It was fancy, but nondescript, bearing only the name the elf had given him, a ten digit phone number, and the letters M and U in the upper right hand corner. Anders made a move to slide the card into his wallet, but as he did, it shimmered slightly under the light. He pulled it out again and held it up to the exposed bulb above the vanity, squinting at it, looking for a watermark or some other trick that would have caused it to do that.

“You must be Anders,” said an unfamiliar voice, and Anders stuffed the card into his wallet, the oddest sense of guilt rushing over him as he turned to face the stranger. He was tall, with dark blue eyes and black hair, and even if he hadn’t known that Marian’s cousin was going to be starting as a waiter, he would have known the Hawke family smirk when he saw it.

“Fabian Hawke, I assume?” Anders offered him a hand. He could tell a lot about a person from the way they shook his hand; hard, finger crushing handshakes were generally dished out by assholes, and he felt particularly nasty towards those who squeezed too hard when he knew they knew he played piano. Fabian had a “reasonable human being” handshake, which immediately raised his opinion of the man, not that it was low to begin with. Hawkes tended to be good people, and since meeting Marian while bussing tables six years ago he had yet to meet a Hawke he didn’t like.

“My cousin has said nothing but good about me, right?” Fabian had a wolfish smile and Anders felt for the second time that night that he was being sized up and mentally undressed. Anders wasn’t entirely sure whether he should feel flattered or disconcerted. He settled on a mixture of the two as he listened to Fabian explain that he was going to be training for a wait staff position, and that he was looking forward to hearing his set.

The set itself seemed to go pretty fast, Isabela vamped it up like she always did, and before Anders realized, they were at the final number. He almost regretted that; there was something so soothing, so comforting about the way the keys felt under his fingers, as if the piano bench, more than the bar, more than anything else, was his home, and the space between this bench and the one at his house was as large as the space between Kirkwall and the Anderfels. It was sometimes too long to travel; he ended up tapping melodies into his leg with antsy fingers, or against the steering wheel of his car.

Tonight though, when he slipped out of the lounge, tie undone, jacket loose, he knew that home was farther away than normal, behind the roadblock of coffee and conversation, and probably a cigarette or two. But when he met with Theron outside of The Hawke’s Nest, he couldn’t help but smile. It always helped when the roadblock was attractive.

Three blocks from The Hawke’s Nest was coffee shop called Bella’s, open earlier and later than the chains, with comfy sofas and an atmosphere more like an old diner than a sleek modern coffee shop. Sure, it had outlets to plug in your laptop at every table and free wi-fi, but the ambiance was distinctly cozy.

Anders slid into one of the overstuffed booths across from Theron, giving him a small smile as he tried not to stare at his ears. It was impolite; at least that’s what his mother’d said, but Anders got the distinct feeling that Theron didn’t mind. They ordered coffee, made small talk, and exchanged sly glances that made butterflies spring to life in Anders’ stomach. But when he asked him what it was that he did for a living, Theron looked at his hands and frowned.

“What do you know about the history of magic?” Theron asked, and Anders felt ice in the pit of his stomach. He remembered reading some time ago, that every Dalish elf used to have the ability to do magic, but that was hundreds of years ago and Dalish simply didn’t exist as a unified people anymore.

“Only what I’ve read in fairy tales,” Anders said coolly, picking up his mug and putting it to his lips. The coffee was suddenly far too bitter, and the back of his head buzzed. This didn’t seem right, and he needed an excuse to leave. Theron smiled at him, but it wasn’t flirtatious; it looked almost sad.

“I know this is strange,” Theron said, folding his hands gently around his coffee cup, tapping the rim with a thumb. “But you need to believe me.” When Anders said nothing, he continued. “I’m a member of the Mage Underground, an organization that exists to locate mages, ensure their safety, and help them live without fear of being found out.”

“That’s…”

“I know, it sounds crazy, but you need to listen to me.” Theron lowered his voice as he leaned forward and Anders pulled back, skittish, the buzzing tug in the back of his mind stronger than ever. There was something like a voice, some primitive instinct that told him to run. But he sat back with his coffee cup and eyed Theron with suspicion. “We know you’re a mage.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Our database comes directly from law enforcement. Listen to me Anders, if we know about you, they know about you, and they’re tracking you. If you won’t let us protect you, you at least need to be informed.” There was an uncomfortable intensity in Theron’s eyes, and Anders pulled out his wallet to pay for his coffee and leave.

“Look, I need to go. I…appreciate your concern,” Anders said, pressing his lips together firmly as he fished out a couple dollars to pay for his coffee.

“I get where you’re coming from,” Theron said. “But just hear me out for one second.”

Anders paused, looking warily across the table at Theron, feeling somewhat angry that he’d let himself get his hopes up. After so many rejections he should have known better to be suspicious of someone who came onto him.  

“Can you hand me the business card I gave you?” Theron asked, and Anders stuffed the cash back into his wallet as he found the card, nondescript and bright white. He pulled it out and handed it back to Theron, furrowing his brow when it shimmered again. Theron flipped it over twice in his hand, showing Anders that neither side of the card had any writing on it. “It’s enchanted,” he explained. “It only displays my name and number when someone with a connection to the raw Fade touches it.”

“I’ve seen parlor tricks before,” Anders said, but he wasn’t convinced. There was no slight of hand involved; Theron took the card and flipped it over, that was all. He watched as Theron offered the card back to him, and there was an urging gentleness on his face as he held it out.

Anders took the card, and watched as the neat black script appeared, slowly bleeding onto the white surface. He looked at Theron, that cold in his belly spreading. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d pushed it back, he’d controlled it. He wasn’t abnormal, or dangerous, or any of the other things the history books said about mages. He shook his head and got to his feet.

“Just keep the card,” Theron said. “You can call anytime.”

Without thinking, Anders shoved the card into his pocket and left, realizing only a few blocks from the coffee shop that he had left without paying. Guilt rose, but it couldn’t overwhelm that icy fear, so he kept walking, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the elf that knew what he was. 


	5. Chapter 5

It was Friday, four days since Marian had rescheduled the fitting for her wedding dress, four days since Fenris had finally waded through his swamp of issues and insecurities to ask Isabela out, and four days since Anders was rudely awakened to the fact that an entire organization that existed specifically to track down people like him knew who he was.

None of them were sleeping.

Marian spent long hours flipping through wedding magazines. “Kirkwall Bride,” “Wedding Fashions of Orlais,” and “Honeymoons in Antiva,” were all lovely, but had one fatal flaw—they all made vague hints about what a bride-to-be should do if she found herself pregnant. A calm would come over Marian as she turned a page, looking at wedding cake designs, or flower arrangements, and then there would be a small line next to a wedding dress about how expecting brides could hide their belly bump. Marian would then close the magazine and put it in the recycling pile. 

She wanted to burn them so they would stop mocking her.

Fenris was having nightmares again, waking early in the morning, gasping for air, clawing at his neck, throwing off the blankets and scrambling off the bed. He thought he’d left the night terrors in Tevinter along with the rest of his demons, but as he bent over the sink, dry heaving, he knew that wasn’t true. He splashed water on his face and watch it roll down, gently touching his tattoos until he convinced himself they weren’t bruises. 

Three times he picked up the phone and hovered over Isabela’s number, whispering, “I can’t.” 

Anders felt like he couldn’t breathe. Every time he tried to lie down and relax, he felt a tightness in his chest along with the tug in the back of his head. He recited Theron’s words so often in his head that he knew them by memory, but the more he thought, the less sense they made. He’d never been arrested, so why would law enforcement know who he was? Then there was that business card. He kept it to himself, flipping it over in his hands while he lay on his couch, bending it, studying it, even clipping off a corner of it, but it was useless. It was card stock, nothing more. But when he put it down on the coffee table the words disappeared. He put his head in his hands and growled.

He was going mad.

But the show went on; every night The Hawke’s Nest was jammed with well dressed, quiet patrons, leaning over small tables to whisper sotto voce to one another, sipping sloe gin and bourbon while they watched Isabela croon into the microphone. When they raised hands for refills, Fabian and Jethann took care of them while Fenris plied his new bar tending skills, the tips of his ears turning red with every compliment. Bethany ushered so many people to their seats that her heels started to give her blisters. Merrill, on days she worked, washed enough glasses to make make her hands wrinkly and waterlogged for hours, and as always, on Friday morning, Anders sat at the keys, playing quietly, making last minute changes to that night’s set with Isabela.  

“You know what would be just perfect?” asked Isabela. “At the end of the set, instead of “Can’t Take That Away From Me,” I could do, “I Put a Spell On You.” Isabela leaned over the piano, watching while Anders made light pencil marks on his sheet music.

“No,” Anders said flatly, not looking up from the music as he turned a page and made another mark. He then sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, looking as if he had an awful headache on top of not having slept for a week. The dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced that even Fenris, who pointedly ignored Anders even on the best days, noticed something wasn’t right and commented on it to Varric. Varric just added it to the list of things that needed his attention, a list that was growing longer by the day, and made a mental note to have a chat with Blondie. 

“If you don’t know it, I can get you the sheet music,” Isabela said. “Just think, we’ll bring the lights down low so everyone thinks the set is over, then once the applause stops, you start into the melody. Then, the spotlight—”

“I’m not playing it,” Anders said. 

“Well I know it’s not from the same era—” 

“Just drop it.” Anders stood, shoved the piano bench backwards, and stormed off of the stage, nearly colliding with Fabian where he leaned against a backstage wall with Marian. They both stopped, watching Anders as he stalked through the dim room, slamming the door to the dressing room behind him after slinking through it. 

“Is he always like that?” asked Fabian, tilting his head to look over Marian, his eyes on the door. “Because the moody, tortured musician look is really working for him.” 

“Oh Maker. Fabian, no.” Marian put her hand over her face, her jaw set. “You’ve been here less than a week, don’t start trying to pick up my employees.” Fabian only grinned. “I’m serious. You’re here to work, not put more notches in your bedpost.”

“Spoilsport,” Fabian said with a snort, stepping away from the wall and returning to the empty house where he went back to the tedious task of wiping, setting, and readying tables for the upcoming night. Jethann joined him there, and then later in the walk-in refrigerator, hot breath crystallizing in the air as Fabian fondled his long, tapered ears.

Across town, Theron Mahariel sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a large computer screen, listening to an older elvhen man speaking over video chat. He nodded at the assertion that Kirkwall was a strategic nightmare, being so close to the military base, but the number of positive hits on the possible mage list was astronomical. In the rest of the world, mages made up approximately five percent of the population. In Kirkwall the numbers were closer to twenty to twenty-five percent, with more being discovered by agents daily.

“There are at least four at the last business I canvassed,” Theron said, shifting his legs underneath him. “It’s incredible; I’ve never seen anything like this. Even among the Dalish there are only a few mages per reservation.” The man in the video nodded solemnly, stroking his chin in thought. “I think it might be best if we concentrate our efforts in Kirkwall for the time being. Regardless of _why_  there are so many mages here, I think it’s important that we get our message out.”

“As much as I am inclined to agree with you, we don’t have the manpower right now. Half of our field agents are in the Anderfels, and it will take time to get them there to the Free Marches.” The man sat back, and behind him Theron could see other members of the Mage Underground; similarly glued to computer screens, their fingers flying over the keys. “You should stay in Kirkwall for the time being, focusing on your current targets until we can devise a better plan or get you some reinforcements.”

“Understood. Do you have any specifications as to how I go about this or—” 

“I trust you.” Theron dropped his gaze and smiled, looking at the keyboard instead of the camera. “You’ve done nothing but good for us in the past, so I have no reason to question your judgement. If there are any major changes I expect to be informed immediately, but until then, proceed as planned.” A weary smile passed over the face of the distinguished older man before he blinked out of sight, the video feed cut.

At The Hawke’s Nest, in a small back room that Marian fondly called “command central,” Varric sat at a low desk, his square reading glasses perched low on his nose as he methodically studied a sales receipt. This was the third time he’d gone over this particular receipt, and it wasn’t because he was careless. Varric was the consummate organizer, class president, leader of the debate club, and able to take a Ferelden ex-pat, a Tevinter runaway, a homeless Rivaini and an underachieving musical prodigy and turn them into something magical. He was thorough, and the numbers were correct, but rechecking it gave him time to sort his thoughts.

Marian was the most important, she always was, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to make her happy. A locked drawer to his left held pamphlets and quotes from a dozen fertility clinics, several of which specialized in “difficult cases.” Children weren’t really high on his list of priorities, but proving to Marian that they  _could_ , and that it wasn’t either of their faults, was number one on that list.

Blondie and Broody were next on the list; the former of which was starting to act strange, while the latter was coming around. He’d found them both in similar situations; poor, overworked, and not living up to their potential. Anders had flourished as soon as he was set in front of a piano, but for Fenris the path was more difficult. He applied right after The Hawke’s Nest opened, looking for a position of dishwasher or busboy, claiming a lack of experience in the industry, but the determination to learn. For weeks he said no more than two words to anyone until Varric took him aside and asked him what was on his mind. Varric still didn’t know the whole story of what the Tevinter woman had done to him, but he was pretty sure that she belonged in jail for a very long time. But Fenris was doing better, getting comfortable with waiting tables while he learned to mix drinks, and according to the second-hand gossip Varric heard from Marian, taking Isabela out for dinner later that night.  

He felt uneasy though; Anders was acting strangely since his last break-up, and twice in the past month health inspectors had been at his front door. Though they gave the highest marks for cleanliness, safety, and a dozen other parameters on their checklists they were still showing up far too frequently, and Varric was starting to worry that someone was lodging false complaints. Then there was the visit from the Kirkwall Board of Taxation, where two middle-aged men in expensive suits asked for copies of his returns from the past two years. He had them on hand and made copies for them, but had a feeling that visit, as with the health inspectors, was a little more than suspicious. 

It all fell to him; the business, the people working in it, and the customers, their problems were his problems, and lately they were weighing heavy on his shoulders. Varric took off the glasses and folded them up, sliding them into a soft protective case before putting them back into the desk drawer along with the sales figures. It was early yet, and he had to shrug off that weight for now. People outside of that room might need a shoulder to lean on, and as Varric left his office, he made sure one would be available.  


	6. Chapter 6

When Marian was a little girl, she wanted to slay dragons.

She remembered these fantasies and could picture herself dashing around the backyard with a stick for a sword, slashing at invisible dragons—everyone knows the invisible ones are the most dangerous—and striking victorious poses when she won, stick in the air, one foot planted on the neck of the beast as a crowd of grateful, admiring peasants cheered her on. When Carver and Bethany were born, they played the role of peasants at first, watching with wide, innocent eyes as she swung wildly at empty air, losing interest in favor of chewing on their hands. Toddlers made for a terrible cheering section. As they grew, Carver wanted to play too, so he was her squire, helping her track and dispatch these evil, numerous dragons while Bethany played damsel in distress, dramatically clasping her hands under her chin and pleading for rescue.

As Marian stared at herself in the three hundred and sixty degree mirrors, she wanted so badly to be once again be slaying dragons.

The dress fit perfectly; the strapless bodice was so snug to her skin that if not for the intricate beading it would have looked like it was painted on. The seamstress had hemmed and hawed for ages, warning Marian that maroon was hardly a traditional color for a wedding dress, and that it would take three times as long to make in addition to costing twice as much. She pointed Marian petulantly towards to the large stock of traditional white dresses in her size, even reciting the old nursery rhyme about ‘marrying in red.’

Marian said that it was a risk she was willing to take.

As she turned to the side in the mirror, admiring the way the dress flared at her hips, Isabela stepped up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, a soft, encouraging smile on her face when Marian glanced around at her. “You really do look beautiful,” she said, gently turning Marian by the shoulders so she was facing the mirrors. Isabela backed up, examining the back of the dress while Marian looked at the dozen mirrored versions of herself.

“I don’t know,” Marian said, nibbling on her lower lip. “Maybe I ought to just go with the white.”

“Oh please.” Isabela joined her at her side again, putting an arm over Marian’s bare shoulder. “In the three years that I’ve known you, you’ve always bucked tradition in favor of doing what you want to do, and what you want to do is almost always right. Don’t second guess yourself, honey.” Isabela leaned in, whispering so the seamstress, who was still standing within earshot, couldn’t hear. “Besides, think about the look on Varric’s face when the doors of the Chantry open and he sees you walking down the aisle. You’ll knock him onto his ass, not that he has a long way to fall.”

Marian laughed, putting a hand over her mouth as each one of her reflections burst into sudden laughter, and she gave Isabela a gentle push. “You’re terrible,” she said, but she was grinning, and the color in her cheeks suggested that she was hoping for that kind of reaction.

Later, when any possible alterations had been discussed along with the payment process and the date that the dress would be picked up, Isabela sat in the passenger seat of Marian’s car, checking email on her cell phone while Marian drove.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Marian began, glancing quickly at Isabela while they were stopped at a red light. “How’s the new apartment working out for you?”

Isabela placed her phone face down on her bare knee, smoothing out her miniskirt, though there was no pulling down the hemline no matter how much she pretended to try. She looked out the window, watching Kirkwall race by, quickly finding places she’d slept before meeting Varric. The parking lot behind the Orelsian restaurant was always the best because occasionally the cook would come out to offer her food that was going to be thrown away. Those were the best nights, and when she had enough gas money to run the heat in her car for an hour or two they were even better. It turned half starving without a place to live into good food and warm surroundings, and she hadn’t hoped for more in years.

“It’s great,” Isabela said, her voice cheerful. “Still more space than I know what to do with, but I’m sure I’ll find something. I’m thinking of putting a dance floor in the living room. I can just cover it with throw rugs when I’m not using it. But I have no idea how I’ll hide the pole…” Isabela said thoughtfully, tapping her forefinger lightly against her chin, the wicked grin on her face making Marian laugh despite herself.  

“I’m not sure the owner would like that,” said Marian.

“That will be the easiest part!” Isabela flipped down the visor to peer at her reflection in the mirror, lifting a small brush coated in shiny, sweet smelling gloss to her lips. “All I need to do is bat my lashes, pout, and explain to him how much it will raise the property values. He’ll be powerless to resist me. Most men are, after all.” There was a tinkling chime and Isabela grabbed her phone off of her knee, eagerly scanning the screen. “Oh! Merrill wants to go to lunch. Would you like to come along? I can text her right now and see if she doesn’t mind.”

Marian hesitated, envisioning her to-do list, long and daunting, with only one item crossed off of it. The wedding was months away, but it was closing in quickly, and the day to day management of The Hawke’s Nest had not gotten any simpler to compensate for the added stress. “Can I take a rain check? I promised Varric I’d bring him something to eat after I dropped you off. You know how focused he gets, and I hate seeing him miss meals.”

Isabela looked out the window, her jaw a bit tighter than normal. “Remember to do what you want to do too,” she said and pushed her lip gloss back into her purse.

“I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to,” Marian said with a soft smile. “Wedding jitters or not, he makes me happy.”

“Then that’s all that matters. Oh! This is my stop!” Isabela grinned as they pulled up to her apartment building, a fancy gated affair on the good side of town. It was small, but it was home, and there was even a garage to park the old beat up sedan that had served as her previous residence. “I’ll tell Merrill that you’ll take a rain check, but next time you’re coming with us, you hear me?” Marian nodded, which satisfied Isabela just fine as she slid out of the car and strolled up to the security guard, her lips shiny with currant gloss when she smiled at him.

When Marian returned to The Hawke’s Nest, carrying a stack of paper containers full of steaming food, the house was dark except for a light behind the bar and one from the kitchen. They didn’t serve much food, mostly precooked and flash frozen desserts that could be thawed easily in a microwave without the customer knowing the difference, and even then they rarely sold a lot of those. The kitchen instead served as half break room, half storage, with the large industrial sinks getting the only real use. She found her cousin and Jethann in the kitchen, sitting at one of the low folding tables, playing cards with an old diamondback deck. By the look of the blush on Jethann’s ears, that wasn’t all they were doing, but she had better things to do with her life than try and control Fabian. Maker knows his mother couldn’t, and she wasn’t going to try to succeed where she had failed.  

Balancing the food in one hand, she pulled open the door to Varric’s office. He was hunched over his desk, his chin resting on his fist while he twirled a pen lazily in the other hand. She watched him for just a moment before he noticed her, and that moment with his back facing her, a smile spreading slow over her face like warming butter, was a perfect replica of every other time she had sneaked up on him without breaking his focus.

“Do you remember the first thing you said to me when we met?” Marian asked as she closed the doorway with her hip, closing the small distance to place the take-out on the corner of his desk. His eyes were tired, but he cupped her cheek with a hand and guided her down to kiss her, stroking just behind her ear with his thumb.

“‘Excuse me Ser, but you’re on my foot,’” said Varric, the weariness in his eyes giving way to his usual good humor.

“After that.” Marian laughed and slid onto the padded bench near his desk, the only other seating that would fit into the cramped room.

Varric tapped his pen thoughtfully against his chin. “‘But you can stay there as long as you want, because damned if you aren’t the most beautiful woman to ever cause me pain.’ Not the best first impression, I’ll admit, but I’m a luckier man than I thought I was, considering how well it worked.” He brushed a stray wisp of hair behind Marian’s ear. “What makes you bring that up?”

“I just like hearing it now and then, is all,” Marian said, picking up one of the containers and handing it to him. “Especially now that I put myself through the pain of a wedding dress fitting for you.” Her lips curled slightly at the the corners, and she flipped open a second container, the scent of roasted chicken and sauteed vegetables filling the small room.

“Remember, I was all for a nice business-like ceremony, signing the certificate and running off to Orlais, responsibilities be damned,” Varric said, though his tone was serious, there was humor in his eyes. “Your mother would have broke my kneecaps for even suggesting that, though, so here we are.”

“Ahh, family,” Marian muttered, unwrapping a plastic fork with her teeth.

“Can’t live with’em, can’t legally push’em off a cliff. What a world we live in.” Varric opened his container and fork, pushing the chicken to the side and starting in on the potatoes. “Have you spoken to Blondie lately?”

Marian paused mid-bite, a thick slice of chicken dangling off of her fork. “Can’t say that I have. He’s been a little sketchy though, hasn’t he?”

“How about Broody?”

This time, Marian stuffed the food into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she remembered Fenris coming to her after a long shift and asking for a day off, not something he’d done since starting there. “He doesn’t look like he’s been getting a lot of sleep, and he asked for Saturday off. I gave it to him.” Varric nodded, sitting back with his feet on the bench next to Marian where she rubbed his leg affectionately. “What’s going on?” she asked, knowing that whenever Varric asked a question, he already had a dozen theories about the answer.

“I’m not really sure yet,” he replied with a frown. “I thought Broody was just nervous because of Rivaini, but that doesn’t explain why Blondie is suddenly not answering his phone, or why Daisy just called and put in her two weeks notice.”

“Did she say why?” Marian asked, feeling a pang of guilt at not going to lunch with Isabela and Merill.

Varric shrugged. “Said she’d explain it next time she came in, but I don’t blame her. She’s spent two years here washing dishes and with Junior off at the Academy most of the time she hasn’t seemed too happy.” Varric poked at a whole roasted tomato, watching it bleed warm juice onto the potatoes underneath it. “I put an ad in the paper and online already. Nothing we can do but keep moving forward.”

There was a long silence as they ate, comfortably close, deep in thought. There was a thump and a laugh from outside of the room, and Marian wrinkled her nose while trying not to imagine whatever it was that Fabian and Jethann were up to.

“Look at it this way. If Feisty and Chuckles are interested in one another, they’re far less likely to hit on patrons,” Varric said, his voice falsely upbeat as another laugh bubbled in from the kitchen.

“Always finding a way to look on the bright side, aren’t you?”

“That’s me. Messere Optimism.”

“I think you’re going to have to stick with Tethras,” Marian said with a smile. “Because there’s no way I’m changing my name to Marian Optimism.” Marian set aside the empty container, closing it with the fork inside, standing and sliding into Varric’s lap when he beckoned her. “I look amazing in that dress, you know,” she whispered, kissing him on the ear, a shiver running through her when his hand tightened on the small of her back.

“I know you do.”

“And we can do this,” she murmured, resting her cheek against his while his hand ran up her back, bringing her shirt with it.

“I was never worried about that. You’re the strongest woman I know, and you can do anything you damn well please.” He kissed her, and in the kitchen, Jethann and Fabian raised their brows at the outburst of sound from Varric’s office, quickly tucking in shirts and zipping up pants, slinking out until their shifts started.


	7. Chapter 7

“But Kitten, you’ve been working at The Hawke’s Nest for longer than I have,” Isabela said, an impressive pout plastered onto her pretty lips. It was theatrics; to an extent, every expression was, but the sentiment was clearly genuine. “Why leave now, all of a sudden?”

“I don’t  _want_  to leave!” Merrill sat across from Isabela, fiddling with her fork as she ignored the Orlesian pastry sitting in front of her. She had eaten the strawberry on top, but the rest of it languished, warming under the sun. “But the owner of the co-op has this brilliant idea to open a garden where people can pick their own fruits and vegetables. Can you imagine it? Vegetables fresh from the ground to your kitchen table!”

“I hope they wash them first,” Isabela murmured, putting her mug to her lips and sipping the strong coffee. An errant breeze blew a tendril of hair into her face and she pushed it back, wishing Merrill had agreed to eating inside instead of out on the patio.

“Well I’d think so. I don’t know! It will be all organic anyway, so if they really want to eat the dirt there won’t be any pesticides in it to make them sick!” Merrill smiled so wide that it stretched to her ears and they tilted upwards, making her look more feline than usual. Her light facial tattoos pointed to a scar on her chin where a laser removal treatment had been botched, and Merrill unconsciously lifted a hand to it, tracing the ugly scar with fingernails the color of grape jam. “When they said they needed someone to tend the garden I couldn’t help myself, I volunteered immediately. Oh Isabela, I don’t want to wash dishes anymore. My hands are cracked and dry and I just want to shove them into the dirt to make them better.” Merrill pouted, looking down at her uneaten dessert.

“I understand, Kitten,” Isabela said, lowering her voice to a soothing croon. She took Merrill’s hand, gently squeezing it until the lithe elf smiled and her cheeks turned a pretty pink. “But you have to promise you won’t disappear; I’d miss you too much if you did.”

Earnestly grasping Isabela’s hand, Merrill shook her head. “I’m not leaving you behind! I’m just…you know, being a bit more of an elf for a while.” Merrill dropped her gaze, her big green eyes forlorn as she nibbled on her lower lip. “You don’t understand how hard it is for elves. I feel very thankful that Varric offered me a job, and I would never have quit if it I didn’t have a good reason. Isabela, I’ll be working  _outside_.” Merrill’s eyes lit up as they met Isabela’s. “With people! The kind that won’t be afraid to look at me even though I have traditional tattoos and long ears. I don’t want to be a dishwasher, or a janitor, or a factory worker for the rest of my life, and the only way I can do that is by cutting off my ears or doing something in a place that encourages elves to be who they are.” She released Isabela’s hand, dropping hers to her lap and staring down at them. “I’m not perfect, or very smart, or very good at anything, really, but I deserve better than to be looked at like I’m not a person.”  

“Oh Kitten.” Isabela crouched next to Merrill’s chair, frowning deeply, with no theatrics this time. “You do not need to change a void-forsaken thing to be a person, do you hear me? You are wonderful, and you are perfect and smart, and if anyone says otherwise I will break their balls, or nose, if they don’t have any. Look at me, Kitten.” Isabela slipped her hands into Merrill’s, lacing their fingers and squeezing until Merrill met eyes with her again. “Everyone at The Hawke’s Nest knows what a treasure you are, especially me. Don’t you ever think otherwise, do you hear me?” Merrill nodded slightly, regaining some steel in her spine. When Isabela released her hands, she cupped both sides of Isabela’s face and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Thank you Isabela, you always know just what to say. Hopefully I can do that one day too.” Isabela returned to her seat, and Merrill, as if having just discovered it was there, scooped up a spoonful of her strawberry cream trifle and popped it into her mouth. “Will you tell Carver I still want to see him this weekend?” Merrill asked. “I still don’t have his phone number, or an address to reach him at, and I don’t want him to think I’m avoiding him. Oh! I need to call Bethany too! Oh goodness, please don’t tell Bethany I thought of her brother first!”

“I won’t,” Isabela said from behind her mug, entirely convinced that Bethany had no illusions to how Merrill felt about her twin. Isabela’s cell phone, sitting near her empty plate, began to beep as an alarm went off. “Damnation,” muttered Isabela as she picked it up. “Darling, as much as I hate to eat and run, I need to go practice. Anders is already there.”

“I’m so sorry! I’ve kept you too long!” Merrill’s eyes growing even wider as she rushed to her feet. “I’ll take care of the bill, just go practice. I’ll miss hearing you sing! Sing loudly enough so I can hear it across town, please?” Merrill wrapped Isabela in a crushing hug, putting her head on her shoulder long enough to whisper an earnest thank you.

“For what?” Isabela asked, petting Merrill’s hair.

“For being you, and for not being afraid to be you around me. Now go! I don’t want you to be even later on my account.” Merrill shooed her, releasing her from the hug and lifting her arms, waving her off.

On stage, the floodlights blocked Isabela’s view of anything but the nearest tables, but she always made an effort to sing to the entire house, turning blind attention to the wings, her lids lowered, and her lips twisted into a precious pout. Anders was barely there; he rarely was when he was playing, lost somewhere between the keys and the strings, but he was flawless, as was Isabela, and Fenris watched them both from behind the bar.

Since Fenris arrived for his shift that Friday, he learned how to make a whiskey sour, a sloe gin fizz and three kinds of cosmopolitans. Varric had since retreated to his office, leaving him to watch for Fabian and Jethann. There would be upheaval with Merrill leaving, and Varric was getting ready to control it.

Varric did that well—controlled things, and Fenris was thankful for that because Tevinter was a long time ago, but sometimes when Fenris felt himself getting comfortable with Kirkwall, he could felt the tropical heat on the back of his neck, making him sweat, making him shudder. Then that little subconscious voice would chirp up like an irritating bird, reminding Fenris that he was so much  _stronger_  than her, that he could have stopped her if he  _wanted_  to, that, if he  _really_  wanted to, he could have hurt her just as badly. Intrusive thoughts; the psychologist called it, but Varric just said that everyone’s mind was an asshole sometimes, and Fenris’ seemed to be working over time.

_“You ought to give that thing a day off now and then,” Varric said. “We’ve all got something we do to escape: Blondie plays piano, Rivaini sings, and Sunshine reads like books are going out of style. You gotta find your thing, and stick with it.”_

Fenris looked at his hands, at the stark white lines that stopped at his fingernails before looping around the pads of his fingers, traveling down his palm, his wrists, and up his arm. He would nod when people asked if it hurt, ignoring follow up questions. The pain was worth it to remember that his skin was his own.

An elf sat down at the bar directly in front of him, and Fenris nearly greeted him as Jethann before he realized that it was a stranger. He glanced at the clock over the bar, confirming that it was too early for customers, and as he turned his attention again to the man on the other side of the counter, he recognized him as a customer from a few nights before.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Dalish, would you?” asked the elf as he leaned conspiratorially over the counter. Fenris had the odd feeling that he ought to take a step back, though he was not intimidated. The man was small, even for an elf, and despite showing up before the bar was open, he didn’t seem to pose a physical threat. But his big pale eyes were scrutinizing, and Fenris flicked his gaze up to the stage where Isabela leaned against the piano, discussing something with Anders.

“There are no Dalish. Old myths, nothing more,” he responded flatly. “We’re closed.”

“I’m here to see Mr. Tethras.” The elf smiled, offered a small hand. “Theron Mahariel. I heard there was a position available.” A measure of relief passed over Fenris’ face, but he didn’t take the opportunity to shake his hand. Theron retracted it, reaching up to toy with the earrings on one of his long ears. “It’s just the tattoos,” he said, trailing off. “I think I’m early.” Producing a cell phone from his pocket, Theron glanced at it, then frowned. “Looks like the clock in my house is an hour off.” He smiled apologetically to Fenris, then slid out of the barstool, sheepishly combing back his long hair, looking lost. 

“I can see if he’s available,” Fenris said, following Theron’s gaze up to the stage, where Isabela had started in on a song Fenris couldn’t place.

“Thank you, but I’ll come back later.” Fenris watched as he walked across the room and into the foyer, slipping out of the unlocked door. He followed him to the door, locking it.

If he returned that night, Fenris didn’t see him, but as soon as The Hawke’s Nest opened, they were slammed with a steady stream of customers. Varric’s advertising, as always, was working remarkably well, and both he and Fenris were too busy behind the bar to pay much attention to any single customer. By the time it began to wind down Fenris had forgotten all about Theron showing up.

“We’re in the black tonight, folks!” Varric said cheerfully as he locked the doors behind the last customer. “A few more nights like that, and we’re going to need to look into expansion.” The grin on his face easily reached each pierced ear, and behind the bar Fenris felt his lips curling into a smile, though for another reason. Isabela was approaching, her purse slung over her shoulder, her eyes full of promise. As Marian and Varric gathered the rest of the employees for a discussion strategies for the next day’s business, Isabela grabbed Fenris’ hand and dragged him backstage. He started at the touch, not nervous so much as unsure, but as they wound around the tables together, he laced his fingers with hers, looking at the way the white bands on his contrasted against her dark, dusky skin, and liking it.

The air outside was so cold that Fenris shivered, still holding Isabela’s hand as they stood in the back alley together, avoiding garbage bags and stubbed out cigarettes.

“I’ve been waiting for this all week,” Isabela said, her voice low and sweet. “You tease.”

“I needed time.” Fenris met her eyes, and the smile that came over him didn’t so much spread as it poured, and though the air was frigid he felt warm and alive. “You understand.” It was not a question, and Isabela shook her head absently, not disagreeing, though not agreeing either. Fenris carefully took his hand back to slip it into his pocket. “There is a place a few blocks from here that I think you may like.”

“I like a lot of things,” Isabela slipped her arm in his and lead him out of the alley. “We should play a game; for everything you guess right about me, you get a reward.”

“What kind of reward?” Fenris asked, feeling younger, feeling lighter than he felt he had any right to. 

“Depends on how many you get right. One or two? Maybe a kiss on the cheek. Twenty plus? Maybe I buy you breakfast,” she said with a grin, relishing the color that Fenris’ ears turned as he looked away from her. “I’m kidding,” she whispered, and smiled when he looked back. “I  _do_ understand. Just don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.” Fenris nodded, and they walked in silence for a minute, looking at closed storefronts with dark windows. 

“Strawberries?” asked Fenris suddenly. 

“I love strawberries,” Isabela said with a smile.

“Chocolate?”

“Chocolate too.” 

Fenris grew quiet again as they walked, and as they passed under the light of a halogen street lamp, he paused and leaned against the cool metal. “Chocolate-covered strawberries?” Isabela nodded. “That’s three,” he said, trying to hold back a smile and failing miserable as she pressed a kiss to his cheek, the gold ball under her lower lip warm against his skin. As he reached to brush his fingers through her hair, she grabbed his hand and pulled again, grinning wide as they slipped into the night, away from The Hawke’s Nest, away from their friends, finally together.


	8. Chapter 8

A thick woolly fog blanketed the campground at the base of Sundermount. At the top of the tall wooden electrical poles, halogen lamps were reduced to fuzzy halos, casting light that was immediately swallowed by all-consuming fog. The only permanent resident of the campground was the caretaker, a grizzled elf who was missing one eye and one ear and could glare a person into submission if they were foolish enough to ask about the absent features. She lived in a small wooden shack near the entrance to the park, an ancient closed circuit security system displaying a blurry, fog-choked view of the grounds on a black and white television. The screen showed the big, still pond before blinking to a picture of the area designated for trailers and other recreational vehicles. During the summer, this section of the park overflowed with expensive fifth wheels and mobile homes, offering vacationers all the comforts of home while they technically spent time outdoors. Currently there was one vehicle parked in the RV lot, which was uncommon for the off-season. Generally, the flow of campers stopped completely once the weather started to get chilly and unpleasant, but this RV, an older model with weatherproofed wooden siding, moved in long after the vacation season ended. But the RV’s owner paid in cash, and he paid in advance, and any suspicion the caretaker might have had didn’t seem important once the money was in her pocket.

Inside the RV, Theron Mahariel was lying on a bed separated from the rest of the interior with a thin, dark curtain. It was slightly bigger than it needed to be for one person, but shoved directly against the back wall of the trailer, making room for a thin dresser and squat nightstand, and leaving the small space so overcrowded that he had to stand on the bed to get to the tiny, sliding window above it. The dome light over the bed was off, but there was a dim lamp on the nightstand that cast a weak yellow glow over the room, illuminating the odd painting on the far wall. It was an unframed canvas, stretched and attached to the wall with flat thumbtacks depicting a verdant forest scene and a herd of strange white deer.

Though the open window let in a stream of frigid air, Theron laid naked and sweating atop rumpled beige sheets, mismatched blankets piled in an unruly heap on the floor. Next to him was another elf, tan skinned and covered with swirling tribal tattoos. When Theron shifted, his companion ran a hand over his body, absently stroking his freckled arm. Reaching for the nightstand, Theron stretched, his fingers brushing a square package before his hand was tugged away.

“I am disappointed,” his companion said, his pout almost audible through a thick Antivan accent. Theron had no doubt he was—Zevran Arainai was the kind of man who commanded attention, and those men were always sullen when it didn’t come. “I have not been here an hour and you are already more interested in my cargo than you are in my…goods, shall we say?” Zevran sat up, raking back a mane of honey blonde hair. “Perhaps next time I should send your cigarettes by post, so you do not have to pretend to tolerate my presence.”

Theron snorted and gave up on the box, sliding his hands over Zevran’s shoulders as he leaned against his back, brushing his lips lightly against Zevran’s cheek. In another time, another place, he may have been annoyed with the implication, but as he felt the sweat-damp warmth of Zevran’s skin beneath his fingertips, he could find no frustration with his volatile mood. “You wouldn’t dare,” he whispered as he nuzzled affectionately into his shoulder. “Not when you know I’m waiting for you.” With light fingers, he combed Zevran’s wild hair, baring his neck to place a fond kiss on it. Zevran turned, sliding out of Theron’s grip to guide him back down, the dim light catching the richness in his coffee-and-milk eyes as he raked his gaze over Theron’s naked frame.

“I do not understand why you are so intent on staying here,” Zevran said, stretching himself over Theron’s prone body, lean and long as a cat as he lowered himself to meet his lips. He kissed like it was a demand, encircling his fingers around Theron’s thin wrist to keep him from reaching again for the cigarettes.

“I go where I need to be.” Theron’s voice was sweet and kindly affectionate, but he dropped his gaze when Zevran scoffed. “I don’t want to argue,” he murmured, lifting his free hand to stroke Zevran’s side, urging him closer. “You won’t be here long; let’s make the best of it.”

A long moment passed while Theron coaxed him, running fingers down his spine and parting his lips for kisses that didn’t come. When they finally did, they were incessant and rough; Zevran’s foul mood vanishing as quickly as it appeared. Theron felt his way up the familiar trails of Zevran’s body, over the scars, the ink, and the piercings, stopping the journey to play with the barbell through his nipple. Zevran smiled and cupped Theron’s head, holding him still so he could slowly lick one of his bejeweled ears. Theron shuddered, a soft noise escaping his mouth when Zevran’s teeth came down.

“You have the most delicious ears, cariño,” Zevran whispered into one of them. “One day I may eat them up.”

“Just my ears?” Theron’s voice was light and fluttery now, high color tinting his cheeks. The curtain rustled as the wind changed and a strong gust poured into the room, the chill raising goosebumps on Theron’s pale skin. He shivered, but he hardly felt the cold.

“Your neck, your lips,” Zevran said, punctuating his words by pressing his lips to the body parts he spoke of. “I will savor you slow, like good brandy, and when you think I have had my fill, I will return for more.”

“That sounds—” Theron paused mid-sentence, cocking his head to the side to listen before he squirmed out of Zevran’s grip to reach for the cell phone vibrating across the floor. Putting it to his ear, he held a hand up to Zevran to stay any protests he might have before answering. “Yes?”

“…is this Theron Mahariel?” The voice on the other end of the line was familiar, but only just, and Theron raced to place it as he answered in the affirmative, ignoring Zevran’s victimized sigh. “This is Anders. I need to talk to you.”

“Of course,” Theron said calmly, making a half-hearted effort to shoo Zevran off of him when he wrapped his arm around Theron’s chest. “Would you like to meet up for coffee?”

“No!” Anders voice rose sharply, then dropped again as if he were afraid of someone hearing him. “No. I don’t—” Theron didn’t need to hear the rest of his sentence to know it would be some odd excuse that really boiled down to not wanting to be seen or overheard in public, but he waited for him to finish speaking out of respect.

“I’m staying at the campgrounds on Sundermount if you would like to meet me in private,” he said once Anders had finished stumbling over his explanation.

“The campgrounds?” Anders sounded incredulous, and Theron didn’t blame him. Perhaps in the summer it was a gorgeous vacation spot, but right now the weather was uniformly foul and he understood why only the caretaker lived there permanently. “I guess that would work. Do you have time now?” Before Theron had time to answer, Anders continued, sounding frantic. “What am I saying? It’s the middle of the night. I shouldn’t even have called.”

“It’s fine. Why don’t you come by tomorrow afternoon?” Theron glanced at Zevran, who rolled his eyes, but nodded. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” After agreement from Anders, Theron ended the call, staring at the phone for a moment while he debated calling his contact at the Underground. Feeling Zevran’s weight shift behind him, he set down the phone. “Sorry,” he said with an apologetic smile, moving to rest next to him, an arm draped lazily over his stomach. “Official business.”

“Even if you do save the world, it will never appreciate it,” Zevran said. There was a weary note of frustration in his voice, and Theron frowned as he curled closer. Zevran made room for him, sliding his arm under Theron’s head, but his gaze was far away.

“What do you suggest I do instead?” Theron asked carefully, tamping down any annoyance for now. They could argue later—they were supposed to be making love right now.

“Come to Antiva with me, relax a while. We could live like kings.” Spurred by the temptation in his words, Zevran guided Theron on top of him, stroking his thighs as they straddled his hips. From his vantage point, Theron was long and thin and red, his hair cascading over his shoulders as he leaned forward, resting his hands on Zevran’s chest.

“To what end though?” Theron asked, pausing as Zevran pushed back his hair, a light smile crossing over his lips when he touched an ear, toying with the hoop earrings.

“Must there be an end?”

“All things end,” Theron said quietly, closing his eyes when Zevran’s lips brushed over his temple. When he opened them again, the wind kicked up so strong that the power in the camper died, the lamp flickering out to plunge the room into darkness. He felt Zevran’s lips on his cheek and turned to catch them, and in the blackness they made love like strangers, stopping only when the lights came back on.

Anders stood outside of the trailer, eyeing it and the battered white pickup truck with suspicion. He didn’t understand why he was here; the situation was ridiculous, and if Anders didn’t still feel that inexorable pull in the back of his skull he would have thrown away the business card and put the entire thing out of his mind. But he was losing sleep by staring at the ceiling, swallowing the horrifying knowledge that somebody knew what he was, whatever he was, and trying not to obsess about how law enforcement would know anything about him since he’d never so much as gotten a parking ticket.

It had rained early in the morning and the ground was little more than thick mud studded with a few obstinate weeds. Imprinted into the mud was some kind of thin, heavy tire track leading away from the mobile home along with a set of footprints that looked like they’d been left by someone wearing boots. Feeling a sense of unease, Anders examined the windows on the side of the trailer, looking for a light, or any other sign that somebody was there. But there were curtains drawn on the inside, and Anders could see nothing.

The trailer was propped up on its wheels, leaving the door a few feet off the muddy ground, two metal steps welded to the side so people were able to get in. There was no bell or knocker, just a screen door over what looked like a wooden one, and Anders sighed under his breath. His car was parked just outside of the RV lot, and it would be a simple thing to turn around and leave. Except when he got home, he would start thinking again; his fingers would tingle and his mind would spin, the little voice inside tantalizing him with the idea that if there was an entire organization devoted to tracking down “people like him” then he wasn’t the only one desperately trying to make sense of why he seemed to be able to do the impossible. Anders opened the screen door and rapped sharply on the wooden one, half hoping that Theron wasn’t home.

There was an immediate response from inside of the trailer, though it was too muffled for Anders to make it out, leading him to wonder exactly how thick the walls were. The door swung open inward, and Theron stepped to the side to give Anders room to enter.

“Take off your shoes when you come in,” he said, and turned away from the door, disappearing into the interior of the trailer.

  
Anders entered, closing the door behind him before taking off his shoes, slowly looking around the small space, thinking that it looked like it ought to have been bigger from the outside. When he got both of the shoes off, he realized that the reason it looked so small was that there was a large cabinet built into the wall next to him, protruding into what he assumed from the couch against the opposite wall was supposed to be a living room. To his right there was a small kitchenette with a thin refrigerator, a shallow stove and a two-burner cook-top  as well as a door that he assumed must lead into the bathroom. To his left was Theron, pulling closed a curtain that Anders decided must hide his bedroom, since there was no other place in the camper for a bed.

“You can sit, if you’d like,” Theron said, pulling out a stool that had been tucked under a small table and perching himself on it, gesturing towards the couch. As Anders took the few strides to the couch, he was struck by how normal this all seemed. Theron, dressed now in a sweater and old, ripped blue jeans, didn’t have that same sense of ethereal beauty that had startled Anders before. His long hair was damp and pulled back into a hasty ponytail, as if he had been in the middle of drying it off when Anders showed up, and he looked tired, weary, wearing that same overworked expression that he often saw on the elves who worked at The Hawke’s Nest. Somehow it made Anders feel more comfortable, and when he sat down on the couch, he felt much less hesitant than when he first arrived. “So,” Theron began, pushing his hair over his shoulder. “What do I need to tell you for you to believe me?”

Anders wasn’t prepared for that question; he had expected Theron to once again try to convince him, to go over his spiel from the night they’d had coffee. He only had one question, and he wasn’t sure if the answer was something he really wanted. So he looked at his hands for a minute, trying to formulate another one. “How do you know who I am?” He finally asked. “You said something about law enforcement, but I have a clean record; I’ve never even run a red light.”

Without answering, Theron stood and crossed in front of Anders, opening the large, built-in cabinet. Inside there was a large flat screen TV mounted on the wall, underneath which there appeared to be a few squat bookcases with glass doors and a file cabinet. Theron reached into the file cabinet, flipping through unseen folders until he pulled one out and paged through it briefly. He turned and walked to where Anders was sitting, standing directly in front of him and offering the folder. As Anders looked up at him and reached for the folder, he got a quick glance at a dark red mark on Theron’s neck. Oddly embarrassed, he turned his attention to the file folder and opened it. He gasped.

The very first page was a copy of his birth certificate, though it was redacted with thick black lines like it was some sort of top secret government memo. His name, as well as the surnames of his parents had been obscured, but he recognized it by sight, and could confirm that the rest of the information was correct.

“Where did you get this?” He asked, his voice louder than he had intended it. Before Theron could answer, he turned to the next page in the folder, finding his grammar school records. “Why do you have these?” It was all there, from his first driver’s license, to his passport, to his tax forms from the previous year. He looked up at Theron, feeling betrayed by the invasion of his privacy, yet gripped by a horrified fear that the placid elf standing in front of him wasn’t the one he needed to be worried about.

“There is a global database in which an alliance of nations shares information on individuals that they deem potentially dangerous,” Theron said, moving to sit next to Anders on the couch. There was more than enough room for both of them, yet Anders still scooted away from him when he sat. “Publically, this database is used to track violent repeat criminals, as well as those who have made credible threats against government officials, but as you and I both know, your record is as clean as they get.” Anders slumped against the back of the couch, looking through the paperwork again. “What does it say your blood type is on your medical records?”

“My blood type is O positive,” Anders answered immediately, but still turned back to the folder. “Odd…it’s redacted on all of these.”

“Have you ever given blood?”

“No, I try every year but my blood sugar levels are off, apparently they’re too low to take my blood.” Theron leaned over the file and slid a couple pages to the side, pointing to results of an extensive blood test.

“Not according to this. See? It even shows the abnormal range right here. Your blood sugar is perfectly fine.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” Anders handed the folder back to Theron, wanting it out of his hands, feeling surreal and sick at paging through the records of his life as if they were a newspaper.

“They don’t let you give blood because you’re not human, at least not to them.” Theron’s voice was gentle, almost sad, as he got to his feet to put the folder away. Anders didn’t know why he was letting him keep it, but truthfully he didn’t want it. It was tainted somehow.

“What in the bloody void am I supposed to be if I’m not human?” Anders’ voice was loud now, and Theron closed the file cabinet. His face was sympathetic as he walked to the small kitchenette and opened the fridge.

“Do you want a beer?” he asked politely, lifting out a dark bottle. “It’s Antivan, not the kind of Kirkwall swill most places serve.”

“I don’t want a bloody beer, I want to know what’s going on!”

“Suit yourself,” Theron said with a shrug, closing the fridge and using a bottle cap remover to open the beer. “Basically, it goes like this.” He sat next to Anders on the couch again, facing him, putting the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply before he continued. “You, and all other mages, are born with a connection to the Fade, or the Beyond as the Dalish call it.” Anders nearly interrupted him to argue about Dalish elves, who as far as anyone knew were nothing more than a myth, but he waited as Theron continued. “This connection makes your blood different; it reacts in strange ways to basic testing, it doesn’t clot the same way, and your white blood cells work entirely differently than those of a non-mage. I admit that I am not as well-versed in this as our scientists, but I can get more information for you if you want it.” Theron paused to take another drink, frowning slightly at the bottle as if it had offended him in some way. “This is why they don’t let you give blood. Your name is on a list, and they are obligated to refuse you. This is also why you’ve never had a sexually transmitted disease, or any other diseases that are spread by contact with bodily fluids.”

“I get the flu every year,” Anders said, protesting, though Theron was right, his health was remarkable, but he had just chalked it up to being lucky.

“So does everyone else; the flu virus is the only one that has mutated enough to infect everyone, but there are scientists working in labs all over the world trying to figure out why the great majority of viruses and bacteria die when exposed to mage’s blood.” Anders put his head in his hands. “I understand that this is a lot to take in, but the main thing that you need to know is that the Mage Underground is here to help you. We can have your records purged, and warn you if there are major changes in how the GAA is collecting your data.”

“The GAA?”

“The Global Andrastian Alliance.”

“You’re saying that the Andrastian church is behind this?” Anders asked, incredulous. Theron nodded, and Anders let out a frustrated sigh. “I liked you so much better when I thought you were coming on to me.” He murmured, feeling lost and uncertain. He had a headache coming on, and he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“I was,” Theron said after a short silence, and Anders looked up from his hands to watch him stand up and walk to one of the windows, opening the drapes and using a lever to crack it open.

“You were what?” Cool air started filling the room as Theron picked up a flat package and tapped out a brown paper wrapped cigarette. He put it between his lips and stuck his hand into his pocket, pulling out a familiar matchbook, “The Hawke’s Nest” written on it in fancy red script. The scent of sulfur assaulted Anders'  nose before the spicy smoke of Theron’s cigarette filled the air.

“I was coming on to you,” Theron said with a wry smile. “Foolish, I know. But you can’t blame me for trying.”

Anders' gaze flickered again to the red mark on Theron’s neck, and as Theron closed his eyes, taking a drag on his cigarette and exhaling smoke through his nose, Anders felt a wave of conflicted excitement wash over him. He made the connection now between the tracks outside and the hickey on his neck, and there was something about realizing he had a lover and was still interested that made a ferociously lonely desire rise into a lump in his throat, immediately tamped down by a glance at that file cabinet. He wondered how many people’s lives were in there, contained in cheap beige folders like Varric’s sales records. It made him sick to contemplate it, and he put his face in his hands again, gently shaking his head.

“Are you okay?” Theron asked softly, and Anders shook his head harder.  
“I’m just fine, perfect, just about as good as I can be despite not being human,” Anders said, choking down a bitter laugh.

Theron crossed the room and picked up a heavy glass ashtray, flicking a dangerously long ash into it. “I know it’s overwhelming, but the thing you need to realize is that you are not alone. There are tens of thousands of mages tracked by the GAA, and we estimate that there are at least that many, if not more, who the GAA has no information on. You are  _not_  the only one.”

Theron’s words were cold comfort as Anders let them sink in, staring at the carpeted floor of the mobile home, feeling Theron move next to him on the couch, and once again he felt betrayed. No matter how outlandish Theron sounded, and the idea of a global conspiracy dedicated to tracking magic users seemed particularly suitable as a plot for a schlocky sci-fi movie, there was no denying the folder full of his personal information, or the sensation he had of being connected to something just outside of his consciousness. He had been tempted so many times to let himself slip, to reach out and grasp whatever it was—Theron called it “the Fade,” and Anders supposed he ought to start doing so as well. Worst of all though was the sense of betrayal in knowing other people had experienced this too, and he knew nothing about it, having instead tailored his entire life to keeping his mind busy so he didn’t accidentally set the drapes on fire when he was angry.

“I need to go,” he said under his breath, standing abruptly without looking at Theron. At the door, he slipped into one shoe before he heard Theron’s feet on the floor behind him.

“Normally I would refer you to someone who could teach you how to control your magic, but there was an incident in the Anderfels and I’m the only one in Kirkwall.” Anders turned to see Theron behind him, his brow furrowed. Again he felt a mixture of unbidden attraction and frustration, and he turned to his shoes, trying to get the other one on as quickly as possible. “I can guide you a little bit, but I’m not a mage.”

“I don’t—” Anders clamped his jaw and finally managed to shove his shoe onto his foot. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He was halfway out the door, but he still heard Theron.

“You can always call.”

“Yeah,” Anders murmured, trudging through the mud back to his car. Once he was there, he sat in it in silence without turning over the engine, trying to make sense of anything and coming up short. Outside, a light rain was falling, and Anders tried to pretend that his car was leaking while angry tears rolled down his face.


	9. Chapter 9

Marian Hawke was Varric’s first love.

Saturday brought record profits, and though it was extra busy without Merrill on dishes, leaving the wait staff rushing to hastily wash glasses in between customers, the flood of happy, wealthycustomers was part of a positive trend. If the consistent growth kept up, Varric would soon have enough capital to buy the languishing Antivan restaurant next door and knock down the wall, doubling the size of the lounge and adding a full-service kitchen. If the Ancestors were kind, they’d even have enough money for that Seheron honeymoon Marian was hoping for.

The idea of Marian, sun-kissed and smiling, wearing something tiny and skin baring so she could get an even tan while stretched out like a languid cat on the beach was enough to make the entire world mean nothing if Varric couldn’t give it to her. That’s why he named the lounge after her, and why when anyone asked, he told them Marian was the boss. As far as Varric Tethras was concerned, Marian Hawke was his life.

He moved in with her last year, long before his little pet project had started to look profitable, and for a while, they lived like paupers, eating nothing but beans and rice and dehydrated noodles, with the occasional fast food hamburger for a treat. Marian’s previous job as an emergency dispatcher had taken an impressive toll on her, and with Varric’s most recent business venture falling through—the less said about that, the better—neither of them thought buying the old abandoned bar between “Antivan Delights,” and “Bella’s Cafe” was the best of ideas.

_“Sometimes,”_ Varric said, a familiar twinkle in his warm eyes, _“you have to jump in headfirst and trust there’s enough water in the pool to keep you from hitting bottom.”_

They jumped, and six months later he did so again, asking her to marry him.  
The minister, a kindly older woman from Ferelden, said she’d never officiated a marriage between a dwarf and a human, and suggested they write their own vows so the Ancestors and Paragons could be adequately included, or else the service would be entirely Andrastian. For all Varric cared, the Maker himself could float down into the middle of the Chantry and offer his blessings in exchange for an eschewing of traditional dwarven ancestor worship—it didn’t matter as long as he was with Marian.

But it wasn’t easy; he sat in his office with piles of records, watching profits and problems rise at an equally overwhelming rate. Merrill quitting was just one more roadblock in a long line of strange occurrences, like the inexplicable health inspections every few weeks and the inability to hold on to wait staff for more than a few months at a time. Varric knew there was high turnover in the hospitality business, but the tendency for servers to leave abruptly after showing no signs of dissatisfaction was puzzling. Normally he’d chalk it up to stress and move on, but it didn’t make sense. The more business they got, the more he could pay his staff, but outside of Anders and Isabela, the only people who stayed longer than six months were family and close friends.

They’d run out of family though, and close friends that didn’t already work with them were in short supply. Varric sighed as he looked over the applications for the recently vacated dishwasher position. There was no avoiding it. He had to take a chance on someone. As he looked through the resumes, piling good prospects in one stack and tossing the others into the trash, he hoped that he could find someone who had worked out as well as Fenris.

Isabela was the closest thing Fenris had ever found to home.

That should have comforted him, but it filled him with a sense of unease so strong that it turned his stomach. He had survived up until now by reminding himself that running was always an option, and the comfort offered by thinking he didn’t have to stay too long was palpable. He’d stayed before, despite his best instincts, and there was nothing good that had come out of that. His time in Tevinter might as well have been a nightmare, and every time he settled down it started to itch at the back of his neck, a phantom rash to remind him of the terrible pressure of hands around throat.

_“All normal,”_  said his psychologist,  _“all things we can work through,”_  and Fenris wondered how he’d gotten to the point where he was talking to someone about Tevinter and Hadriana, and how he was ever going to tell the story to the one who needed to hear it most.

For their second date they went dancing, Isabela’s movements imbued with preternatural rhythm, the scent of her perfume enough to send him reeling, especially when she pressed against him and underneath the vanilla musk he could smell sweat and rum and unbridled joy. All elves were blessed—or cursed—with superhuman hearing, but Fenris couldn’t recall a single one of the songs they danced to; all he was remembered Isabela’s honey-sweet voice.

_“Aren’t you full of surprises?”_  She asked, a knowing smirk on her pretty lips as Fenris moved with practiced grace.  _“I knew you had it in you. I wonder what else you have in you…”_

He pretended to smile—he was getting good at that.

Fenris had told her nothing, he couldn’t bear to, as if opening his mouth would release poisonous miasma to taint everyone around him. He was being dramatic; he understood that, but nothing could erase the discomfort of lying in bed at night, his eyes half closed, drifting in and out of unconsciousness, jerked awake by the unbidden memories of lying in a bigger bed, dreading Hadriana’s return.

She would have to find out eventually though, just as Varric did, just as Marian did, and although they were tight-lipped and sympathetic, he couldn’t bring himself to trust anyone else to be.

But nobody felt like home the way Isabela did. Nobody made genuine smiles spread over his weary lips, or lift the weight that hung around his neck like an albatross. When they kissed at the end of their night, her hand light on his arm as she stood just close enough to brush her lips against his, his stomach fluttered like he was fifteen again. He touched her hair; she smiled, and they left together, walking hand in hand under flickering street lamps, not feeling the chill until he was at her door. She invited him in, though both of them knew his answer.

_“Next time?”_

_“Perhaps,”_  he said. The answer was always perhaps, but he hoped someday it wouldn’t be.    

Anders was convinced Theron Mahariel would be the death of him.

After leaving the campground angry, stinging with the unavoidable truth that every detail of his life was sitting in a folder in Theron’s mobile home, he pulled off the road, thinking he’d turn around, but knowing there was no sense in it. Outside of taking the folder with him there was nothing he could do. Burning it wouldn’t make it untrue, and Theron had to have printed it from somewhere, so it was likely all he would accomplish was pissing off the only person who seemed to have some idea what was wrong with him.

Not that Theron acted as if something was wrong; to the contrary, he was sympathetic, helpful, and the knowledge he shared was overwhelming. Once or twice Anders thought the interest Theron showed in him had to be because he was a mage—that word still felt wrong, chilly and sickening, like saying it would summon some kind of great evil onto his head—and somehow that upset him even more. He had spent an entire lifetime trying to hide the tingling in his hands and the buzzing in his brain, hoping that if his fingertips erupted in sparks he could explain it away as static electricity.

_“Just got new carpet, you know how it is.”_

To think that someone wanted him because of the strangeness and not in spite of it was heady, leaving him caught between fear and desire, wanting to both push Theron away and shove him down to leave marks of his own on his pale skin.

He didn’t usually think like that; when soothed, his mind was a fairly placid place, but now he was angry, and scared, and desperately lonely, and felt as if the only person he could trust was the one who frightened him most.

Things had been better once. When he first started at The Hawke’s Nest, he’d been dating a wonderful man, someone who got him, who loved him, at least until they didn’t. Since then he’d been getting by, putting up his profile on dating sites, meeting strangers for coffee and at least twice ending up drunkenly fumbling with someone in an alleyway, wanting more than they could possibly give him while feeling he had nothing to offer. To Theron at least, he felt like he must have something, or else he wouldn’t have tried to talk to him. Part of him stared at the exit on the freeway that lead to the campground every time he passed it, imagining himself driving up the steep incline again to bang on Theron’s door.

_“I want to know everything, and I want you to be the one that tells me.”_


	10. Chapter 10

“Are they here yet?” Bethany Hawke had just come out of the ladies’ room and was still fussing with her hair, curling ringlets around her fingers and holding them tight. When she let them go, she did so gently, waiting for them to spring back into place before patting them to make sure they were lying just right. “Please don’t tell me they showed up while I was in the loo.”

“Nobody here but us chickens, sweetness,” Isabela cooed from the stage where she leaned over Anders’ shoulder to look at the sheet music. He finally gave in and agreed to add “I Put a Spell On You” to the set list, but was now engaged in a friendly battle over where it belonged. Isabela insisted it would make a phenomenal closing number, but Anders argued that it was best to end with something tried and trustworthy, slipping new songs somewhere in the middle where, if they bombed, they wouldn't leave the audience with a bad taste in its mouth.

"It's a Screamin' Jay Hawkins cover; how could it possibly bomb?" Isabela lowered herself onto the piano bench next to Anders, dancing her fingers across the keys just slightly enough for hammers to strike strings, the instrument playing the soft notes of an improvised melody. "Of course, my version will be much more sensual--"

"Of course," Anders agreed, an undercurrent of exasperated humor coloring his voice. He brushed her hand off of the keys to run a scale, ignoring the pout on her pretty lips lest Fenris find another reason to glare at him. His attitude towards Anders had been bad enough when he and Isabela were just flirting, but now that they'd gone out on a few dates Anders got the feeling that Fenris saw him as some kind of interloper in his budding relationship with Isabela. A brief glance towards the bar confirmed that Fenris was still there, wiping down the marble countertop after another round of cocktail mixing practice, one eye on the piano.

"--which is why it would be perfect at the end of the set," Isabela said, finishing like she hadn't been interrupted. She sat back, bracing herself with her arms. "I want to leave them dying for more." Her voice was hungry but wistful, and Isabela found herself on a stage in her old high school, belting out some half-remembered song by a band that hadn't actually been all that good. The singer had a voice though, just like she had eyes like the night sky and hips that pounded the beat with the drums. That sixteen year old girl watching the music video was transfixed, coming to the realization that she didn't just want to fuck her, she wanted to be her. While she drifted, Anders picked up his pencil and scratched out "My Funny Valentine," indicating with an arrow that it would be played three songs up before adding "I Put a Spell On You" to the end of the list.

At the front of the house, Bethany leaned on the hostess podium anxiously, waking her mobile phone to check her email and text messages one more time. There was nothing new, as had been the case five minutes ago, but she tapped the refresh button one more time, then again for good measure. It was only five past the hour--six now--but her twin was irritatingly punctual, leading to the Hawke family in-joke that Bethany was only the youngest because Carver couldn't stand being late. So when the door opened she fully expected her brother to be behind it. She only managed to squelch the word "home" after "welcome" when she realized it wasn't him.   
She recognized the elf at the door as a customer, though not a regular, and put on her best hostess smile, half professional, half girl next door, with all sultry sweetness that came with the latter. "I'm sorry, but we're not opening for another three hours," she said as she looked the man over. He was short and small, Merrill's size easily, and was dressed in black slacks and a black button down, a sleek green tie knotted neatly at his neck. His red hair was pinned up into some sort of bun that was more precious than professional, but Bethany suspected that there was very little save for cutting his hair that would help him escape the hint of feminine cuteness it lent him.

"I'm here for an interview," he said with a small, tight-lipped smile, and it was only then that Bethany remembered Varric telling her there were applicants for the dishwasher position showing up today.

"Of course!" Bethany said without missing a beat and excused herself to look for Varric, finding him in the kitchen talking to Fabian.

"What you do on your own time is no business of mine, Chuckles, but while you're on the clock you've gotta follow the rules. Now I've never had to make a rule specifically saying that you can't play 'Seven Minutes in Heaven' in the walk-in freezer, but I will if necessary, " Varric said amiably. He turned his attention to Bethany, who told him that his first interview had arrived. "Better early than late, I suppose," said Varric, stroking his chin in thought. "All right, send'em back and I'll meet'em in command central."

Bethany returned to the foyer to tell the elf where to go, and had just started to speak when the front door burst open again.

"Can't even greet your own brother?" Carver asked, looking more sour than he sounded as he waited for Bethany to point the elf in the direction of the office. "I can see that I was missed."

"Go soak your head," Bethany said, her voice on the flat side of annoyed as she tried to look past him out the door.

"Don't worry, Nathaniel's just getting something out of the car, although I should have left him behind seeing how you can't even give me the time of day when he's around."

"I shared a bedroom with you for eleven years, and that's not even counting the womb. Of course I'm more excited to see an old friend than you."

Carver put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a fond hug. "Missed you too, sister."

"Liar," she said, equally as fond as she hugged him back.

In the front of the house, Theron Mahariel walked past the bar on his way to the back room. For all the problems with Kirkwall; the military academy, the inexplicable number of mages, and the general sense of hostility towards non-humans, he was glad he had decided to stay instead of backing down until reinforcements could be assigned. He liked the camp on Sundermount; it was private and serene, plus the rent was reasonable, which was an important consideration given that the Mage Underground was underfunded to the point where Theron could barely count on gas money to get from one assignment to another. Living in a state of perpetual travel and uncertain funding was not a simple undertaking, but Theron found ways to get by. Giving Zevran a place to stay when he passed through town not only got him a substantial discount on his vices of choice, but occasionally netted him a share of the profit, though that always depended on everything from the market, to the buyers, to Zevran's volatile mood. If he was being honest, he would admit to liking the sex and companionship more than any discount, especially since it came with a strict policy of no strings attached. A drink, a good fuck, and a cigarette after and Theron almost felt like he should be paying Zevran for the pleasure of having him visit. But playing host to one Antivan smuggler wasn't paying the bills, so here he was, hoping to get a dishwashing job to make ends meet.

In some ways it was fortunate; of all the places in Kirkwall, Theron liked The Hawke's Nest best. The air crackled with electricity, with magic, most of which was emanating from Anders. Theron had never met a mage that just shined with the Fade like Anders, and the same part of him that liked expensive Antivan cigarettes and bitter Orlesian chocolate made him want it. He had been conflicted when he met Anders in the alley. He was such a handsome man; tall and blond, with eyes like dark amber, and those hands, long and delicate, mobile, perfect fingers that Theron just wanted to mesh with his own like living lattice, intertwined. Making himself follow what little protocol the Mage Underground demanded of him was painful. Actually getting to know him made things even more complicated; the man was shattered, scattered to the winds, and if Theron wasn't careful, he'd explode.

"What in the bloody Void are you doing here?" Anders hissed, tearing Theron out of his thoughts. Anders' eyes darted wildly, to the bar, to the piano, to the lobby, and when he had made whatever decision that had his brows knitted, he grabbed Theron by the shoulder and pulled him into an alcove just off the kitchen. "I've worked here for years; I have friends here! Why are you here?"

"I'm applying for the position of dishwasher," Theron said wearily, reaching up to gently push Anders' hand off of his shoulder. He wouldn't have minded if he wasn't squeezing.   
  
"Dishwash--" Anders' eyes lit up with recognition and he dropped his hand. "Fuck. Sorry for the..." Anders waved his hand oddly, as if to gesture away the firm grip on Theron's shoulder. "But why? Why does it have to be here?"

"Ever try getting a job with these?" Theron lifted a hand and put his forefinger to the very tip of one ear, twiddling it. Two of the earrings clicked together metalicaly.

"I thought you had a job with the Mag--the MU." Anders' gaze jumped to Theron's ear, drawn by the light glinting off of his earrings.

"That's more of a volunteer position," Theron admitted, smiling as he cast his eyes down. "If I was relying on them to get by, I'd be living in a homeless shelter. I'm with them because it's right, not because it's profitable." Theron met Anders' eyes again, his smile fading when Anders turned away.

"I don't want anything to do with this, or them." Having realized that he was pinning Theron into the alcove, Anders stepped back, brow furrowed, lips pursed. "Or you," he added, but it lacked the force of his previous proclaimations.

"You're not obligated to have anything to do with me or the Underground," Theron said quietly. "But it's not going to get better. You're still going to lie awake at night feeling that unbearable yearning--don't tell me you don't, because it's a part of you." Theron put a hand on Anders' shoulder, a tender mirror of Anders' grab. "I just want to help if I can." Theron glanced down the hall towards Varric's door. "And get a job so I can stay in the city for a few months." With another smile, Theron released Anders and passed him by, heading towards Varric's office.

"Theron?"

Theron stopped, and turned halfway; the question was in his wide green eyes, but not on his lips.

"Can I come by again? Later? To talk?"

"Any time." With a polite nod of his head, Theron turned his back on Anders. It was easy to find Varric's office. There was only one door on that side of the building, but Theron hesitated outside as it sounded like the occupant was on the phone. He didn't try to eavesdrop, but for an elf, hearing things not meant for your ears was unavoidable.

"Tell me you're wearing that gorgeous little number with the silver trim," Varric said. He sat back, lifting one booted foot to put it on the desk. He chuckled, closed his eyes, and imagined Marian slipping the dress up her muscular thighs, her perfect ass. "You know how much I love that one. Well, I'll be anticipating your arrival, my dearest lady." He chuckled again, but it was low and tender. "Love you too, Waffles." There was a click as the receiver was placed back into the cradle, and Theron chose that moment to rap gently on the door.

When prompted, Theron stuck his head through the door, quickly glancing over the small room. Despite the cramped quarters, it was comfortable, decorated in lush dark wood and soft leather, warm yellow light spilling from a pendant lamp above the desk.

"You must be my early arrival," said Varric, leaning forward over the desk and tenting his fingers. He smiled and gestured to the chair across from him, sitting back as Theron rounded the chair. Theron smoothed his tie as he sat, then folded his hands primly in his lap. "So tell me, Red, what is it that makes you want to work at this illustrious establishment?"

"To be perfectly honest with you Mr. Tethras--"

"Varric."

"Varric." Theron corrected himself. "Frankly, I need a job, and I know that you'll be highly unlikely to refuse me based on my ears alone; most employers would." Theron toyed with his tie, rubbing the silk between his forefinger and thumb. "This also happens to be the classiest joint in all of Kirkwall; even if I'm just washing dishes, this is the type of place I want to be. Plus you make a damn good whiskey sour and I've always made a point to trust someone who knows their booze." Theron dropped the end of his tie and flashed Varric a small, sardonic smile.

"Well, Red," Varric said as he stood, offering Theron a hand. "I think you're going to fit in just fine."


	11. Chapter 11

“You hired the first applicant?”   
  
The first thing Marian Hawke always did when she got home was take off her shoes. Heels, usually shiny patent leather ones with pointed toes, were part of her meticulously crafted professional image, along with the sequined dresses and smokey eyeshadow, but there was nothing she hated the way she hated those shoes. Impracticality and pain were valid complaints, but it wasn’t calluses and sore toes that upset her. As she kicked the high heels into the closet along with a dozen similar pairs, Marian felt sublime relief wash over her in knowing that she no longer towered so high above Varric. They were still nowhere near the same height, which was simply one of the unavoidable realities of dating non-humans, but the extra two inches those heels added somehow made the distance between them unbearable, as if all it would take was another inch and he would be completely out of her grasp.

“You know how my intuition works, Waffles,” Varric said. There was a light click when he locked the door behind them, another when he turned on the overhead lamp. “Besides, he was honest; didn’t feed me some line about how he was eager to start a career in the service industry, just gave it to me straight, said he needed a job, knew we hired elves, and that he’d been to The Nest before and liked it.”   
  
“Sounds like your kind of guy,” Marian said fondly. She bent at the waist to slide her hands over Varric’s broad shoulders and grip the edges of his lapel. He shrugged off the jacket, and she hung it on a low peg, one of the many things she’d installed specifically for him when he moved in. If Varric ever felt inadequate due to being short, he was remarkably good at hiding it. As far as Marian had seen, he was no more hampered by his height than Carver and Bethany (who were six inches taller and shorter than Marian, respectively) were by theirs.

Marian had a dream once where she was Alice, and in Wonderland she found the bottle labeled “DRINK ME.” She downed it without a second thought, eagerly awaiting the feeling of shrinking down, maybe to Varric’s height, maybe even shorter. Instead, it was the bottle, the table, and the room that shrank, and just as she woke, a cold sweat clammy on her skin, she vividly remembered thinking that it was the cake that was supposed to make her grow, not the potion. She never told anyone.   
  
“Honestly, I just wanted to get the position filled, and filled fast. Your cousin is terrible at dishes, and if I catch him trying to make a move on Feisty during business hours one more time, I’m going to have to give him a couple days off without pay.”   
  
“Oh, Fabian.” With a groan, Marian rubbed her forehead. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t fret.” Varric placed his hand gently to the small of Marian’s back. “In six weeks, we’ll be off on our honeymoon, and neither your cousin’s sex drive, nor Blondie’s mood swings will stop us from having the time of our lives.”   
  
“What about my mother?” Marian asked. She crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, resting back on her hands. “She’s always been able to ruin anything.”   
  
“If that was true, I wouldn’t be here.” Varric joined Marian, cupping her chin and tilting it upwards. He smiled with his eyes more than his lips, and now they were afire with affectionate admiration. Varric pressed his nose to her cheek, closing his eyes. “Don’t fret, Waffles. No matter what, you’ve always got me.”   
  
Sliding her hand behind his head, Marian brushed her fingers through Varric’s hair, nails light on his scalp. That lopsided smile was wide on his lips as he lowered his mouth to hers, brushing his thumb lightly against her temple as he kissed her.

His kiss always made her fluttery and jelly-legged, leaving her feeling like a teenager on her first date, new and overstimulated, flooded with unrestrained need. She gripped his hair, one arm around his broad shoulders, ever aware of how well he knew her, playing her as masterfully as Anders played his piano, the fingers on her spine, pulling down her zipper tooth by tooth, as skilled as a concert violinist.   
  
“Let’s get you out of this dress,” Varric whispered, one hand sliding her sleeve off of her shoulder.  
  
“I knew that was the only reason you liked this one,” Marian said, closing her eyes and letting Varric drag his head down to kiss her bare shoulder, his fingers creeping under the elastic strap of her bra and lifting it away from her skin.   
  
“Guilty as charged,” he said with a low chuckle. “But you could say that about everything you wear. I may not know fashion, but I know what looks good when it’s on the floor.”   
  
“We’re already engaged,” Marian said. She raised her arms as he reached behind her, easily unclasping the hook and eye and lifting off her bra. “You don’t have to woo me with terrible pick-up lines.”

“Gotta keep you on your toes, Gorgeous.” Varric kissed her collarbone and gently lowered her onto her back. She lifted her hips and shimmied out of her dress. The air was cool on her skin, but Varric’s big hands easily warmed her, massaging out the gooseflesh and bringing a flush to her chest and cheeks.   
  
“Varric?”  
  
“Mm-hmm?” He glanced up from her chest, his thumb circling her pale nipple, coaxing it to hard tightness, his lips hovering above it.   
  
“Do—” She paused and swallowed hard, arching her back as his tongue ghosted against her skin. “Mm, wait a sec…” He stopped, and she gathered her composure before continuing. “Do you ever wish I was shorter?” she asked, her brows furrowed when she lifted her head.

“Never,” Varric said without hesitation, pressing his lips firmly to Marian’s belly as he moved down her body. With each hand on a thigh, he gently spread them, settling himself between her legs. “I’ll tell you a secret about dwarves.” He brushed his knuckles over her panties, just barely touching her before his hand continued the path to her thigh. “We dwarves, well, let’s just say we’re all leg men.” Varric cupped the back of her knee and lifted it, pressing a firm kiss to her inner thigh, the very tip of his tongue flicking out to leave a warm, wet brand there.   
  
“I’m serious,” Marian said, but her argument had lost its teeth. She fell back on the pillows, staring up at the drop ceiling but seeing nothing, too captivated by the way her heart raced at his touch. For Marian it was always the first time, trembling and giggling on that horrible old couch in Varric’s old apartment. She had been just on the tipsy side of drunk when he kissed her, and she’d grabbed him with enough force to break one of her nails. It was never fucking with him; fucking was the sort of thing one did with third dates that were attractive enough for a kiss and a tumble, but not the kind of person to pick out china patterns with. She wouldn’t call it “making love,” because of her belief that entirely insipid term was invented by romance novelists, but she would admit that sex with her fiance was better than it had ever been with anyone else. Most of the time, Varric was this big, fuzzy teddy bear, all crushing hugs and warm smiles, but when they were alone, he was something completely different. He had a look, this half-lidded, private glance that left her aching from the thighs up. He could smile, call her “Waffles,” or one of the other dozen nicknames he had for her, and she’d want him the way a prisoner wants freedom. Marian had always had this notion that they would calm down eventually, that they’d move from the giddy, foolish, madly in love phase, and settle into something more serene, something more adult. After all, Varric was a successful businessman, kept impeccable records, and even did his own accounting. Sometimes she felt like the schoolgirl crush she never stopped having on him was kind of immature, even with their wedding approaching. Then he’d cup her cheek in her big hand, his eyes would gleam the same way they had when he asked her to marry him, and she’d fall all over again, her worries banished.

“So am I,” said Varric. “Besides, we’ve been over this before. I didn’t fall in love with you  _despite_ anything.”

Marian sat up, her legs bent at the knees, and slid her hands back Varric’s cheeks, her fingers combing through his hair as she kissed him. He stroked her bare back, a contented smile crossing his lips when she yanked on his tie, loosening it just enough to undo the top buttons of his starched white shirt.   
  
“Been awhile, hasn’t it?” He murmured when she yanked his shirt out of his trousers.   
  
“Too long.” Marian kissed his shoulder, her voice muffled. “Why’s it been so long?”   
  
“Work, I suppose.” Varric detached from her to swing his legs over the side of the bed. She nuzzled his back as he unbuttoned his trousers, sliding her hands over his shoulders to run her nails down his chest. “Stress.” He tilted his head back and kissed her. “Worries.”   
  
Marian tightened her arms around him. “Bad reasons.”   
  
“I agree,” he said with a wry smile. “I’d like to introduce a motion to ignore worries and work long as necessary, so long as we’re home.”   
  
Marian buried her face into Varric’s neck, all tongue and hot breath, vaguely nodding when he spoke. “I propose that we table all motions until the committee is no longer preoccupied.” Still pressed against Varric’s back, she encircled his waist with her arm, her fingertips playfully tugging on the elastic of his y-fronts.   
  
“Motion tabled,” said Varric with an air of officiality.  
  
“Good. Now on your back.” Marian watched as Varric stepped out of his trousers and underwear, giving his ass a playful swat before he laid down at the head of the bed. She crawled over him, tugging her panties down and kicking them off.   
  
There had been a time when Marian too shy to be seen, insisting that every lamp was off or dimmed, unwilling to believe that her thick waist and small breasts were desirable enough to be seen. Now, as she straddled Varric, pressing her nose to his nose with a smile, it was without fear though the chandelier cast an uncompromising light over them.

Her mouth was on his as he guided his cock into her, and she stole his breath with a tremorous gasp. There was no putting into words just how  _right_  it felt with him, how his hands were big enough that only one was needed to hold her steady as she raised her hips, how she could lean down on him and his mouth was at perfect chest-level, how he could grip her thighs and lift her without an ounce of effort. Isabela once asked her how he was in bed, ostensibly so that she could see Marian’s cheeks turn an entire spectrum of red. But Marian had been entirely unphased. She just grinned and said;  _“you have no bloody idea.”_


	12. Chapter 12

It bothered Merrill that all the women crouching at the foot of the massage chairs, including the one who had scrubbed her feet and buffed off her calluses with a pumice stone, were elvhen. She tried admirably to hide her discomfort, but squeaked in despair when the woman who had washed her feet began to massage them.

“O-oh my, p-please, that’s not necessary,” Merrill stuttered, a flush rising to the tips of her ears when Isabela, who was sitting next to her, relaxed and calm, sipping coffee from a white paper cup, glanced over at her with a curious, near suspicious look on her pretty face. “You really don’t have to do that…”   
  
“It’s part of the service, Miss.” The elf at her feet, who was smiling though she looked worn, her eyes surrounded by dark circles, continued to firmly press her thumbs into the arch of Merrill’s small foot.   
  
Merrill’s brow crumpled at the conflicted knot of stress that settled in her stomach. Looking to Isabela for guidance proved pointless, as she had pressed the button that turned on the rollers in her chair, and was now leaning back, her eyes closed in contented bliss. Merrill found that her chair was too vigorous, and was likely to bruise her kidneys if she left it on too long, so she kept it off, staring at the abstract painting across from her while the nail technician layered pretty red polish on her toes.   
  
Once their nails were painted and the technicians had disappeared into a well concealed back room, Merrill turned again to Isabela, the concern that floated off of her in waves tinged by bleak guilt. Though she was sure she knew why all the women working there were elvhen, she hoped that by some foolish stroke of luck she would be wrong. Merrill didn’t suspect that she would be, after all, she too had tried to get jobs outside of the service industry with no success, and she was certain that the women who washed their feet were in the same predicament, working long hours hunched over rich women’s toes because that was the only job that would have them.   
  
“What’s the matter, kitten?” Isabela placed her empty coffee cup on the table that sat between them, then patted Merrill gingerly on the arm, careful not to smudge her perfectly painted nails.   
  
“I never wanted other elves to have to wait on me,” Merrill said, her cheeks burning with both indignation and the embarrassment of ingratitude. “Why would you bring me here?”   
  
Isabela’s brow knitted, her eyes searching Merrill’s face, her lips curling downward at the angry flush, the drooping ears, and the hand that was instinctively touching the scar on her chin. “I just thought that with Carver in town,” Isabela began. Merrill dropped her head, gazing down at her lap. “I thought you might like to get a little dolled up.”   
  
“Am I not good enough for him without it, then?” Merrill narrowed her big eyes as she glared at Isabela, her anger shifting. “Or is it that an elf would never be good enough for him, no matter how ‘dolled up’ they are?”   
  
From the back room, two of the technicians stuck their head out at the sudden increase in noise. With a small shake of her head, Isabela dismissed them. They slunk backwards, relieved.   
  
“I never said that, and you know I wouldn’t.” Isabela lifted the arm of the chair and swung around, sitting sideways. She took Merrill’s small hand between her own. “What’s the matter, kitten? Last time we talked you were so happy about your new job.”   
  
“I got fired,” Merrill sobbed, her head hanging slack, eyes unfocused. “My tattoos scared the customers.” Merrill worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I’ll never be enough, will I? I’ll always just be an elf, no matter what I do. I t-try so hard.” Merrill’s vision blurred as hot tears welled in her eyes. “But no matter how hard I try, it’s just never enough.”   
  
“Oh, Merrill.” Wet nails and all, Isabela eased Merrill out of her chair and into her lap, cradling her head gently to her shoulder. “Kitten, you’re more than enough. You’re better than enough. You’reMerrill, sweet, energetic, caring Merrill, and assholes who think your tattoos are scary aren’t worth your time.”   
  
“I try so hard,” Merrill said again, hiccuping through her sobs, clutching to Isabela’s shoulder like a frightened child.   
  
“I know you do; you try harder than anyone should have to.” Isabela stroked her short hair, closing her eyes as she placed a firm kiss to Merrill’s forehead, rocking her gently in the chair.   
  
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Merrill voice quivered as hot tears rolled down her face, soaking the strap of Isabela’s thin tank top. “I don’t have a job. I don’t even have money to pay for my nails.”   
  
“Don’t you worry about that; this is my treat.”   
  
“But, I can’t—”  
  
“No arguments, Kitten. This is something I wanted to do for you.”   
  
Though the nail technicians milled about the room, taking phone calls and talking to customers, Isabela stayed on her chair with Merrill on her lap, her grip secure while her fingers were gentle, carding through Merrill’s dark hair until the crying stopped.   
  
“Now what we’re going to do,” Isabela began, her voice self-assured in a way that raised gooseflesh on Merrill’s skin, “is go back to The Hawke’s Nest and get you a job. Then you don’t have to worry about money. But before we do that, I’m buying you the nicest dress we can find, and you’re going to walk up to Carver and tell him that you two are going out to dinner tomorrow night.”   
  
“Oh I can’t!”   
  
“Yes you can, and trust me, he won’t know what hit him.”  
  
“But…” Merrill faltered, casting her eyes down, then aside, as she realized her view put her gaze directly into Isabela’s cleavage. “Won’t Varric be mad at me for leaving?”   
  
“Honey, Varric doesn’t get mad.”   
  
“But…and I don’t mean to be ungrateful…but I don’t want to do dishes anymore.” Merrill put her small hands to her face. “Oh I’m hopeless.”   
  
Taking both of her hands by the wrist, Isabela gently pried them down. “You don’t have to do dishes. Varric hired a new dishwasher, but we still need servers.” Merrill’s wide eyes flew open, lime green and astonished.   
  
“M-me? But my tattoos! I scared off customers before!”   
  
“Nobody seems to mind Fenris’ tattoos,” Isabela said, her gaze far away for the smallest moment. “Or Jethann’s ears, or the fact that Varric is a dwarf.” Merrill fidgeted in Isabela’s lap. “Honey, youbelong at the Hawke’s Nest. It’s not right without you. Now you come home, and everything will be okay, I promise.”   
  
“You can’t be sure of that,” Merrill said, but her resolve was transforming from despair to tentative excitement.  
  
“Kitten, in all the years you’ve known me, have I ever been wrong about something like this?” Isabela asked, then pressed a firm, tender kiss to Merrill’s cheek. “You’ll come out of this even better than before, right?” Isabela’s dark eyes were half-lidded but sparkling, and Merrill nodded, wrapping her slim arms around Isabela’s shoulders to gather her up in a rib-crushing, lung-emptying hug.   
  
Back in “command central” Varric hung up the phone and lifted his feet onto the desk, not even pretending to hide the self-satisfied smile as he opened the human resources folder and took Merrill’s old application out. The place was off-kilter without her, and just knowing she wished to return lifted a tangible pall of unease. Merrill was family in the same way that Anders and Isabela were, as loved as blood and damn the differences. Varric opened the bottom drawer of his desk and lifted out a squarish bottle of dwarven scotch, sloshing the dark liquid in a slow circle as he smiled. Homecomings always required celebration.   
  
In one of the cozy booths near the back of the house, Bethany Hawke sat across from Nathaniel Howe, marveling that this was the shy little boy who had sat next to her every day on the swingset, hiding behind his lank hair and hawkish nose. He’d grown into the nose (thank the Maker,) and the hair was still long, but not lank, and pulled back into a fashionable queue. Nathaniel Howe had grown up, but in some ways he was still that shy little boy who didn’t know how to take a hint.   
  
Bethany stirred her Shirley Temple before putting the straw between her cherry red lips, the very tip of her tongue poking the straw before she took the first sip. She lived in despair of men like this; so handsome, so promising, and so utterly, perfectly blind. Across from her, he stared down at his iced tea, his brows stuck in permanent concern.   
  
“Well come on, then. You must have wanted to tell me something,” Bethany said. Nathaniel glanced up, his grey eyes meeting hers, and a thrilling rush quivered down her spine. She had to make a concerted effort not to move, and even then she shifted just slightly in her seat.   
  
“You have to promise me that you won’t tell your brother.” Nathaniel’s voice was grave, smoky and low.   
  
“Of course I won’t,” Bethany cooed. It all made sense now. Nathaniel was Carver’s friend too, and she suspected that men had some sort of rules or code of honor when it came to female siblings. If that was why he was hesitating, then she could put a very quick stop to that. Not only was Carver not her keeper, but he was the youngest sibling, and Bethany was not about to let him get in the way of finally getting Nathaniel’s attention.   
  
Nathaniel frowned again, worrying a cocktail napkin to shreds while Bethany waited for him to speak. “It’s about the Academy,” he began, and Bethany sank into her seat with a disappointed pout. “Some of the things we’re learning, well…it doesn’t seem right.”   
  
“It’s just training for the Thedosian guard, isn’t it?” Bethany asked, remembering the pamphlet that Carver had given to their mother. “Running and jumping, learning to use a gun and protect the peace—it doesn’t seem all that strange.”   
  
“You haven’t been there. Some of the things that we’re supposed to do…” Nathaniel clamped his hand over the shredded napkin. “It doesn’t make sense.”   
  
Seeing that whatever bothered Nathaniel was clearly more than a disagreement with her brother, Bethany leaned across the table to place her hand gently atop of his. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”   
  
“You’re the only one I thought I could come to,” Nathaniel said, attempting a half-smile and giving up one-quarter of the way in. “After my father…” He shook his head. “You can’t laugh at me Bethany, no matter how strange this is going to sound, you can’t laugh at me.”   
  
“I won’t,” Bethany said. A chill had settled deep in the pit of her stomach, and she was certain that no laughter would come, no matter what he said.   
  
“Most of it’s all what I expected: physical fitness, handgun training, obstacle courses and long classes on how to properly deal with disaster situations.” As if he’d just noticed her hand on his, he carefully took his away, looking sheepish. “But then there’s…this other side of it. They’re making us memorize the Chant of Light, and once in a while, they’ll start saying things like ‘if you discover a mage, you are not to engage with her, but to immediately report to your commanding officer.’” Nathaniel cracked his knuckles. His jaw was set, and Bethany stared at him, as perplexed as if he had suddenly started speaking Orlesean.   
  
“Surely they’re pulling some kind of joke on—” Nathaniel shook his head before Bethany was able to finish.   
  
“I don’t know how to explain it. As soon as we got through basic training, everything took a turn to this weird religious-magic-fairy tale stuff. I heard a commander tell another cadet that soon we’d be able to sense mages, and we’d understand everything then.” Nathaniel pushed away from the table, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he sat back in the booth. “If they all didn’t seem so bloody serious about it I’d just say they were hazing us and laugh it off. But it’s in every piece of the training literature, every instructional video. What’s worse though…” Nathaniel darted a glance to the door, then leaned over the table. Bethany leaned in, swallowing to wet her dry mouth, her soda forgotten. “I think they’re trying to drug us.”   
  
“What? Why?” Incredulous as she was, Bethany could not raise her voice above a stage whisper   
  
“I haven’t a clue, but once we cleared the last tier of training, they started giving us pills with our food. Vitamins, they said, but I don’t bloody buy it. I haven’t taken them, neither has Carver,” he said, and Bethany sighed with relief.   
  
“Maybe it’s not safe for you—”   
  
“Look, you can’t tell your brother. He thinks they’re having one over on us and once we’re out of training we’ll be let in on the joke. I can’t convince him otherwise, and he made me swear not to tell anyone. Besides that…we had to sign some kind of confidentiality agreement. Whatever is going on, they don’t want people to know about it.”   
  
“Why are you telling me, then?”   
  
“I had to tell someone.” He reached for his iced tea, but just held the cup, making no motion to bring it to his mouth. “I trust you, and I wasn’t sure who else I could trust with something like this.”   
  
“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”   
  
“Thank the Maker,” Nathaniel said with a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Bethany. You—you are an amazing woman.”   
  
“Then why don’t you come to dinner with me?” Bethany asked, surprised by how quickly the words came out after everything that had been said. Nathaniel raised one brow, then a whisper of a flush rose on his cheeks.   
  
“Why, Bethany Hawke, are you trying to work your magic on me?”   
  
“Don’t be silly,” she said with a coy smile. “Magic isn’t real.”   
  
From the lobby, where the soundproofing was nowhere near as good as Varric had thought it was, Anders sat on the bench that shared a wall with Bethany and Nathaniel’s booth, listening to every word.


	13. Chapter 13

Anders sat on the floor of Theron’s mobile home with his legs awkwardly folded over one another, feeling like a gangly, knobby-jointed horse.To make matters worse, his knees kept brushing Theron’s, which was intensely distracting. It was not at all conducive to the task of attempting to use his magic intentionally for the first time. The fact that Theron appeared to have no problem sitting this way made Anders’ mind wander. He wondered if elves were inherently flexible, or if Theron’s ease in folding himself up like a pretzel came from doing yoga in his spare time. The mental image of the lean muscles in Theron’s shoulders hard with tension as he lifted himself off of his belly made focusing an absurd impossibility.

Across from Anders, Theron was comfortably resting his elbows on his knees, his long hair spilling over his shoulders, striking copper left wavy from braiding. He kept finger-combing it back over his ear, dragging the tips of his fingers down the length of his earlobe to pinch and tug at one of the gold hoops. That too was distracting.  
  
“Focus on the candle,” Theron said calmly. Anders had no idea how he managed to stay so placid; he had been “focusing on the candle” for forty-five minutes straight and the only thing that  changed was that now he was sore and frustrated instead of just frustrated.  
  
“If I focus any harder I’m going to give myself a migraine…or develop a long-lasting animosity towards candles.” Anders leaned forward into his hands, covering his face as he barely concealed a groan.  
  
“Do you like pepperoni, or are you more of a vegetable man?” Theron asked. He unfolded himself with startling grace, his bare feet silent as he stepped around Anders on his way to the kitchen.   
  
“What?”   
  
“On pizza,” Theron said. Once he had retrieved his cell phone from the counter, he dropped onto the couch, tucking his feet under his body. “You need a break. If you’re not hungry I’ll just order for myself.”   
  
“You live on the top of a bloody mountain; you can’t tell me there are pizzerias willing to deliver up here.” Trying to conceal the stiffness in his legs, Anders slowly stood.   
  
“In forty-five minutes or less, in fact.” Theron said, pointing to a menu flyer attached to the fridge by a rabbit-shaped magnet. “They know me, and I tip well, so they have incentive. Do you want something or not?”   
  
After unsuccessfully trying to work the kink out of his back, Anders sat heavily on the little stool near Theron’s table. Joining him on the couch always seemed like a bad idea, no matter how often Theron told him to make himself at home. “I guess I could go for pepperoni,” he said, though he didn’t feel very hungry at all. After inadvertently hearing Nathaniel and Bethany’s conversation, he felt coldly sick, unable to force himself to eat. Sleep wasn’t coming either, and the trip up Sundermount to Theron’s motor home had just confused him more. He didn’t want to become friendly with him, as if refusing every offer for beer and pizza would make the folder with his life’s records disappear. But he couldn’t very well avoid him now, seeing as he worked at The Hawke’s Nest, and every time Anders saw his red hair his stomach knotted into a mashed-up pit of intermingled fear and desire. That was the worst of it—not that he was afraid, he could handle that, but that growing gnaw of want was overwhelming. Half the time he wasn’t even sure what it was he felt he needed from Theron. Answers would make the most sense, but there were these fleeting, unbidden fantasies about catching the elf up against the wall and holding him there, staring down into his impossibly green eyes until Theron’s pale pink lips mouthed the wordplease.   
  
Theron thanked the person he was speaking to on the phone. He leaned forward to toss it onto the low coffee table that had been pushed close to the sofa to free up valuable floor space. Without the sound of his soft, melodic voice, an awkward silence settled onto the room. Outside, Anders could hear the wind buffeting the trailer. An absent thought struck him and he glanced at Theron, wondering why he was living in such an isolated place. He thought of his own flat, crammed between a shopping center and a lively nightclub, and had a strong desire to be back there, sitting on his piano bench while the city walked by his living room window.   
  
“Why do you live all the way up here?” Anders asked, catching a darting glance as Theron turned his attention away from the silent phone. Theron raked his hand through the mass of his red hair, curling his fingers through the ends, his face distant with thought.   
  
“I came here from the Anderfels, before that I was in Antiva, before that, Tevinter, Ferelden, and before that Orlais.” Weariness came over him in a rush, his thin body slumping further into the battered leather sofa. “Renting apartments or living in hotels is too expensive and impractical. I own the camper; it just makes more sense to use it.”   
  
“Isn’t it lonely?”   
  
“Are you offering to keep me company?” Theron asked, a sardonic smile creeping across his face when Anders turned away.   
  
“I was just thinking that I couldn’t do it. Solitude like this would kill me.”   
  
“You’d be surprised,” Theron said vaguely. “It’s peaceful. I don’t have to worry about break-ins or noisy neighbors.” He rested his head against the back of the sofa. His gaze was far-away, looking long past the curtain that hid his bed. “I can hear birds in the morning; I can even see stars at night. There are wolves somewhere out here too; I hear them howl.”

“You’re not making it sound all that endearing,” Anders said with a dry laugh. “The first time I heard a wolf I think I’d be running for civilization.”   
  
“They don’t open doors.” Theron tilted his head enough to peer over his shoulder at Anders.   
  
“Still,” Anders said, and the conversation died. Feeling jittery and out of sorts, Anders stood and slipped his cigarettes out of his pocket. “Do you mind?” He gestured to Theron, who got to his feet in a graceful, liquid motion. He opened the small window above the table Anders had been seated at, then offered him the ashtray from the coffee table. Gratefully, Anders sat again, putting a cigarette to his lips and lighting it. “I’m never going to understand this,” he said, shaking his knee as he smoked.   
  
“Why I live here?”   
  
“No, no…this.” Anders gestured helplessly. “Magic, mages…” Mentally he added the word you in bright lights and italics, immediately appending an asterisk, the footnote rambling about the impossibility of one man, one elf, upending Anders’ entire life.  
  
“You’ll get it; you guys always do.” Anders blinked at him, his head tilted at a quizzical angle. “I’ve helped hundreds of mages in the ten years I’ve been a field agent. All of them got it. It just takes time, and better teachers.” With an apologetic shrug, Theron sat carefully on the coffee table. “I’m not a mage; I can only do so much to try and show you how to control it because I’ve never experienced it myself. All I can do is use techniques that I’ve seen others use and hope for the best. Normally we’d have a mage sent out to mentor you but—”   
  
“But they’re all in the Anderfels.” Anders finished his sentence; it was not the first time he’d heard it. Theron nodded.   
  
“There is something else we haven’t tried yet,” Theron said slowly. Anders raised a brow. He stubbed out his cigarette while Theron thoughtfully stared at the floor, catching the fibers of the throw rug in his toes. “Sit with me on the floor here,” he said, moving away from the coffee table.   
  
“Can’t I stand?” Anders asked with a grimace, not relishing the idea of folding himself up on the floor again. He wasn’t sure he could stand up a second time.   
  
“I suppose. Give me your hands.” Theron extended both hands, palms up, waiting for Anders to place his atop of them. Anders hesitated, his eyes darting from Theron’s hands to his calm, pretty face. He furrowed his brow in desperate confusion, before lying his palms carefully on Theron’s. The elf’s hands were small, but unbearably warm.   
  
“I’m going to hurt you,” Theron said calmly, and Anders immediately jerked his hands away. “Please, I’ve seen this work before—it’s a sort of defense mechanism. I’m not going to do anything terrible to you, but I’m not going to tell you what, and I’m not going to tell you when. If you just pull your hands away it won’t trigger it.” Anders eyed him with suspicion. “Come on, I won’t break the skin. You probably hurt yourself worse shaving.” Theron waited, unerringly patient, until Anders gave him his hands.   
  
There was a long moment of quiet tension. Theron held Anders’ gaze, and neither man moved their hands. A minute ticked by, and Theron was as still as a startled deer, his only movement the light rise and fall of his chest. The strangest feeling came over Anders, hitting him so fast that he barely registered the press of Theron’s thumbnail to his palm. It was gentle, just a brush, almost a caress, and Anders glanced down at his hands, wondering if Theron had been joking about trying to hurt him.   
  
It was then he realized his hand was on fire.   
  
Theron wretched his hands away from Anders, cussing—or at least Anders thought it was cussing, the tone of voice seemed right—in a language unlike Anders had ever heard. Theron shook out the flame on his hand, smacking his sleeve to make sure it was extinguished, all while stumbling towards the kitchen sink. ****

The flame in Anders’ hand winked out, and he stared in disbelief while the sound of running water muffled Theron’s nonstop stream of angry foreign tongue.   
  
“I-I’m sorry,” Anders said. He took a tentative step to where Theron stood, afraid that Theron would shrink away from him.    
  
“No, no. It’s my fault,” Theron said, though his voice was strained as he held his hand over the sink, running cold water over the burn. “Every time I’ve seen that done before, the mage uses some…pulse of light to throw the other’s hands off. I had no idea that anything else could even happen.” He hissed, then gritted his teeth.   
  
“Should I call an ambulance?” Anders asked, concern mounting as he realized that even over the smell of cigarette he could catch a whiff of what must have been burning skin. It made his stomach roil, acid rising in his gorge.   
  
“I’ll be fine,” Theron said tersely. “There’s peroxide and burn cream in the medicine cabinet; can you grab it for me?” Anders nodded. He was eager to leave the kitchenette, but Theron’s bathroom was only two steps away. It was hardly big enough for him to jam himself into while he raided the medicine cabinet. He grabbed what Theron asked for as well as a box of gauze and bandages for good measure.   
  
“I really didn’t mean—” Anders set everything onto the counter next to Theron, the blood draining from his face as he got a look at the burn on Theron’s hand. His entire palm was split and blistered, the skin angry red. The thin, delicate skin between his thumb and forefinger was bleeding, blood pooling in the sink though the stream of water was strong. “Maker’s Blood, you need to get to a doctor.” ****

“No!” Theron said sharply. He reached for the peroxide with his good hand, and Anders grabbed him by the wrist. ****

“Stop being such a bloody fool! That’s at least a second-degree burn and you need medical attention!” Though he wasn’t sure what compelled him—afterwards he said that he  _knew_  he knew better, but felt as though he couldn’t stop himself—Anders reached across the sink to grab Theron’s burned hand. ****

There was a flash of light, blue and blinding, as soon as his fingers touched Theron’s skin. He immediately pulled his hand back, horrified. He had  _felt_  the magic that time; it had left him in a rushing wave from the tips of his fingers. He stepped away from Theron, fearing what he had done. ****

“I’m so sorry,” Anders mumbled. His stomach was a maelstrom now, and he took a step towards the door, nausea overtaking him. He fumbled with the door handle, dying to get outside and away from the ozone scent of whatever he had done.   
  
“Anders,” Theron said, and this time it wasn’t pained. Anders stopped. There was an odd tremor in Theron’s voice, and it made him turn when he desperately did not want to.   
  
Theron was holding up the burned hand. It dripped with cold water, but it was whole, as clean and smooth as it had been before the burst of flame had split the skin. Anders’ brow knit as he tried to comprehend how Theron could have needed urgent burn treatment not thirty seconds before.

“You’re a healer,” Theron whispered. A look of infectious awe came over his face, and he broke into rapid rambling. “No  _fucking_  wonder you couldn’t figure it out! Without anyone to heal, it must have just built up inside of you. One hundred and fifty fucking mages I’ve met and you’re the first healer! I’ve got to tell Orsino; he’s going to be ecstatic!” The joyful energy poured off of Theron in a flood as he crossed the small distance to Anders, grabbing his hands. All his weariness was gone now, his face a snapshot of utter glee.   

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Anders said clumsily, tearing his gaze away from Theron’s hands to catch his eyes. In that moment Theron, all smiles and firey eyes, was so stunning that Anders’ heart lost its rhythm, thudding hard to make up for the beat it skipped. Fear was a gentle memory, all but forgotten, but that desire, that  _want_ , was so overwhelming, so  _present_ , that Anders was certain that opening his mouth would make it all spill out in a rush of jumbled sentiment. “I never meant…” he said, and trailed off, because now Theron was grinning, flashing sharply pointed incisors, his cheeks and ears flushed rosy red. ****

“I’m sorry,” Anders murmured, and with only thought for feeding the gnawing beast of desire, he clasped both hands to Theron’s cheeks and kissed him soundly.  

One step behind, Theron only realized what Anders was doing when his lips, warm and parted, the bottom chapped from a nervous chewing habit, were on his. He stumbled back, off-balance, the kitchen counter digging into his ass as Anders followed his small retreat, dropping one hand to his neck, sliding the other to the back of his head. Anders stole his breath, and they parted, Anders’ nose gently bumping Theron’s.   
  
“I—” Anders began, his voice thick. “I’m so sorry,” he said. He looked like a man regaining his senses, and made a move to drop his hands from Theron’s head.   
  
Theron grabbed the one on his neck, holding it there, pressing his thumb over Anders’ where it touched his jaw. Lips parted, eyes uncertain, Anders searched Theron’s face.   
  
Theron nodded, just a small incline of his head. “Don’t apologize.” Moving his hand from where it sat atop Anders’ to stroke Anders’ jaw, Theron leaned in and up, his bare feet flexing on the wood floor as he stretched to reach Anders’ face. There was sublime relief in the slide of Theron’s mouth against Anders’, and moreso in the eagerness in which his kiss was returned. Theron was sweet, breaking kisses with smiles, brushing his lips feather-light against the corner of Anders’ mouth. Overwhelmed, Anders leaned his forehead against Theron’s as he caught a sharp, trembling breath. Theron raised a hand to his cheek, dropping his warm lips to Anders’ unshaven chin. “Never apologize for giving someone what they want.”


	14. Chapter 14

"Lemme guess, you two are going to have an order of french toast with strawberries, three poached eggs, cantaloupe if we've got it, two sides of bacon, hot tea with lemon and a pot of coffee, lots o'cream and sugar on the side. Am I right?" Sigrun held her pen expectantly over the memo pad while Marian and Varric slid onto the vinyl benches.

"You've got us pegged, Moonbeam," Varric said, folding his large hands over one another on the table in the middle of the booth, his eyes friendly, his tone bordering on familial. "Of course, it would be a neater trick if we hadn't ordered the same thing every Saturday for the last two years."

"I keep hoping that one of these days you two will be adventurous and order blueberries or kiwi, maybe sausage." Sigrun smiled and stuffed the memo pad into her apron.

"We're much too old for that kind of adventure," Marian said, covering her mouth as she stifled a yawn. Outside the window their booth was seated under the Kirkwall morning sky was still dark, ribbons of purple and orange dim on the horizon. "And too old to be getting up before dawn, if you ask me." But Marian was smiling, leaning back in her seat with a fond eye on Varric. Sigrun tucked her pen behind her ear and shook her head, feigning disgust at the couple as she walked to the counter separating the kitchen from the dining area, barking an order at the cook once she got there.

"So since I spent the entire night convincing my mother that the wedding hasn't been canceled, I didn’t get a chance to meet our new dishwasher. How was his first shift?" Marian asked, brushing misbehaving bangs out of her eyes.

Varric continued gazing out the window at the dark streets before answering. "He's interesting. A lot quieter than I thought he'd be, but he works hard." Varric turned to her, resting his chin in one big palm. "He's a hell of a lot faster than your cousin too--"

"Well that's not difficult," Marian said with a laugh.

"Probably because he's not hitting on Feisty every chance he gets."

"Much to Jethann's dismay, I'm sure."

Sigrun returned to the table with a metal carafe and a teapot sitting on a small tray alongside unopened teabags and lemon slices.

"Actually, I don't think Feisty said two words to him all night. You want to know the strangest thing, though?" Varric asked once Sigrun had gone again. He reached across the table for the sugar dispenser, shaking some into his cup before filling it with coffee.

"Stranger than Jethann not taking an opportunity to flirt with a new employee?  You'll have to try pretty hard."

"Blondie had an eye on him all night." Marian stopped in the middle of opening her teabag, brows raising slightly. "He went into the kitchen between each set. Don't know if they talked, we were busy, but I gotta tell you--Blondie looked downright lovestruck."

"Good. He needed to move on anyway," Marian said, lifting the lid of the teapot to drop several teabags into the steaming water within. "That last break-up was awfully hard on him. So long as he's not taking lessons on how to behave from Fabian, I can't see a problem."  

Varric shrugged slightly and put his cup to his lips. "That's assuming Red is interested in him. Could be a problem if he's not."

"True. But this is Anders we're talking about. He's not likely to do anything foolish."

Reaching between them, Sigrun sat down their plates, and outside their window the sun began to rise.

 

Later that day, on the edge of Kirkwall's shopping district, Fenris and Isabela sat across from one another in a chic, dimly lit restaurant. On the center of the wooden table between them there was a bowl of melted cheese sitting atop a small round burner, a half dozen metal skewers, and a bowl of various things to dip.

"This is different," Fenris said after the waiter left, studying the modern artwork hanging above their booth with a critical eye.

"Don't tell me you've never had fondue." Isabela had already picked up her skewer and was spearing a piece of green apple with it. "...or that you're allergic to cheese," she added.

"I am not," Fenris said, smiling gently as he watched her dunk the apple into the pot and pull it out, slathered with cheese. "And I have had it before, just never at a restaurant." Isabela popped the cheesy apple into her mouth and immediately covered it with her hand, taking short breaths.

"It's hot," she said, muffled, her cheeks a little flushed. He smiled and waited for her to swallow before he continued.

"I had it once at a party, Hadriana--" Fenris paused and furrowed his brow, dropping his gaze to his tattooed hands. Isabela speared a bread cube this time and offered the skewer to him. He took it, a tight smile ghosting over his lips. "It is not a bad memory. In a way that is harder." The understanding in Isabela's eyes always astonished him. It was palpable, tangible, as if perhaps he could reach out and feel it radiating off of her like summer warmth. Instead he looked away as he picked up a fat white mushroom and slid it onto the end of his skewer with the bread.

She reached across the table, avoiding the hot burner, and rested her hand on top of his, one finger gently tracing the trail of the white tattoo up his thumb. He took her hand, and she squeezed it, smiling knowingly. When she released his hand, he dunked his skewer into the cheese, extracting it carefully, eying the steam rising off of it.

"I love this place," Isabela said with a genuine smile. "It's all so intimate, don't you think? The atmosphere, the food. You know there's a chocolate fondue for dessert. We can dip strawberries into it."

"Oh? Is that why you wanted to come here?" Fenris blew on the cheesy mushroom before pulling it off the skewer with his teeth.

"Actually no, but it is a bonus." Isabela rolled the thin metal rod between her forefinger and thumb, looking through the basket to find a broccoli floret. "I wanted to bring you here because they do most of their business during dinner hours, so it's always quiet during the day." Instead of dipping the broccoli into the cheese, she set the skewer down on her plate. "Did I ever tell you I was married?" she asked, holding his gaze when he looked up, expecting the surprise on his face and waiting for him to process it. He shook his head, making an admirable attempt to remain blasé.

"I still am, actually." Isabela waited. There were two reactions she had come to expect to this admission; shock and betrayal, and it was always curious to see which one any given person would display. Fenris rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms together. With his eyes cast down and his brows furrowed, he pressed his lips to the sides of his fingers. Still, Isabela waited, showing no signs of any discomfort, though her pulse began to speed slightly.

“Go on,” Fenris said quietly, glancing up to meet her eyes. The expression on his face was subtle and hard to place--somehow, she’d expected that of him.

“My family was extremely poor, even for the part of Rivain I was born in,” Isabela began, looking up at the modern art above their booth without seeing it, thinking instead of the feel of creaking, splintered floorboards under bare feet, and the smell of landfill. Closing her eyes, she pushed past unbidden memory, her eyes focusing on splatters of black and turquoise paint. “When I was twelve, my parents arranged for me to meet some men who were, shall we say, eager to get married.”

“To a twelve year old?” Fenris’ voice teetered on the dangerous side of disgust, his lips curled back.

“Of course not!” Isabela waved her hand dismissively. “I was only to be promised to him. The actual marriage didn’t take place until I was fifteen.” Isabela pressed her lips together firmly, brows furrowed for a moment before she shook it off, looking like herself again, batting her lashes and holding her lips in a perfect cupid’s bow. “My family received a substantial dowry, from what I understand. I was worth enough for them to buy a house,” she said, a strange note of pride in her voice.

“But?” Fenris asked. His posture relaxed as he listened, one arm dropped to his lap while he rested his chin on his fist, not taking his eyes off of her.

“But I didn’t fancy being married to an old man who smelled of fish,” Isabela said with a careless shrug. “An Antivan smuggler got me out of the city, and here I am!” It wasn’t the whole story--not even half of it, but Fenris nodded and went back to his skewer of bread, dipping it into the pot of cheese, nodding slightly.

“I understand,” he said, and Isabela smiled.

 

That night, in an upscale corner of Hightown, Anders and Theron sat together at a small table in a dim, candle lit restaurant. Theron was underdressed for the atmosphere, wearing a striped vest over a dark button-down shirt, and tight jeans instead of trousers. The maître d eyed him with a look of palpable disdain, but led them to the table Anders reserved without saying a word.

Soon after the waiter cleared away their empty plates, he returned with a small flat dish for each of them, a perfectly molded round of mousse sitting in the middle of it, next to a sliced fig and stripe of blood red strawberry sauce. The waiter then refilled their wine and disappeared off to the kitchen again.

“This is all a little much,” Theron said finally, having held it behind his tongue for the entire meal, through the goat cheese and beet salad, and the rare filet mignon. Anders offered him an amiable shrug.

“I like taking the opportunity to do something nice when I get it,” he said, lifting his glass and swirling the red wine within. “With how busy I am at the Nest, I rarely get the chance to just take a night off to relax.”

“To relax with meals that are fifty dollars a plate,” Theron said with a thin-lipped smile, picking up the small golden spoon sitting on the side of his dessert dish. He slid the spoon through the mousse, blemishing the flawless cylinder.

“Next time I’ll take you to a food cart, how’s that?” Anders teased, his eyes bright in the warm, flickering light. “Or maybe a slice of pizza and we can eat it at a busstop.”

Theron rolled his eyes at Anders, but he was smiling.

“Besides,” Anders said, “I needed a chance to see you...” He paused, casting his eyes down in thought. “Out of context,” he said finally. Theron looked up from his half-eaten mousse, a brow raised quizzically. “Outside of the Nest, and your house.”

“Calling it a house is generous,” Theron said with a low chuckle.

“Hear me out.” Anders met Theron’s pale eyes and held his gaze. Theron glanced at his dessert as if it were suddenly interesting, nodding. “To see you as a man, nothing else. Not a co-worker, not...” Anders shrugged again as Theron, ignoring his dessert fork, picked up a slice of fig with his fingers and put it in his mouth.

“Not afraid of me anymore, are you?” His voice low, Theron leaned over the table a bit, pushing his plate off to the side. “First time I tried to see you ‘out of context’ you ran away from me.”

“I’m not used to invitations for coffee coming with vaguely threatening warnings.” Avoiding the candles on the center of the table, Anders lifted a hand to brush it against Theron’s cheek, his fingertips grazing one of Theron’s elongated, pierced ears. Theron jerked backwards, a little too fast, and the tips of his ears blazed red even in the dim light. “Sorry,” Anders said, his tone one of quiet concern. “Should I not have touch--”

“Not here, not now,” Theron replied, quick and low, avoiding the waiter’s eyes when he returned to take the plates and Anders’ credit card.

Outside, in the parking lot, Theron leaned against Anders’ car with him, one of his thin, brown-papered cigarettes between his lips. The moon was high and full, casting cool light down onto the quiet streets, overpowering the warm glow from golden street lamps.

Theron flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe, sucking in a long lungful of the cool night air. He turned to Anders who, having just mimicked his actions with his own cigarette, was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the sky.

“Anders,” Theron said quietly, stepping in front of him and lifting a hand to his shoulder when he shifted his focus from the sky, He felt Anders’ arms around his waist before he felt his lips, bringing them together, Anders’ body warm and firm and big under his tailored suit.

“It’s too soon for me to ask you to come home with me, isn’t it?” Anders asked when they parted, tamping down the excitement in his voice as he searched Theron’s glinting eyes. Trying not to set his jaw, Theron nodded, stretching onto his toes to brush his lips against Anders’ scruffy cheek.

“It’s been...some time since I last dated,” Theron murmured. “You can give me a bit more, can’t you?”

“Of course.” Anders kissed him lightly once, then again when Theron wrapped his arms around his neck. “Just one thing.” Anders leaned over him to whisper. “Can I touch your ears now?”

Theron nodded sharply, then got lost in it despite himself, letting Anders lift him onto the hood of his car, shuddering as he pressed fervent kisses to his ear, then his neck. He tilted his head back, a shiver rolling through him though the chilly night air barely touched him. As the day ended, he closed his eyes to the moon and drifted off into the tempting joy of lips and tongue and teeth.  

 


	15. Chapter 15

Standing just outside the front door to The Hawke's Nest was the sort of guy you hoped to never see walking down a dark alley at night--cagey, with hollows under eyes that darted too fast, too uneasy. If it wasn't for the grey uniform with a badge of sun and sword on his breast pocket, Varric would have walked past and called the police.

"Afternoon, Officer," Varric said as he approached, taking the key out of his pocket a little more slowly than normal, keeping those big hands in sight. "I'm afraid you're a little early for happy hour, but if you come back later we just got a shipment of great vodka from the Anderfels. Smooth as silk and warmer than the Anderfels could ever hope to be." With a cheerful smile he opened the door, standing between it and the police officer, the bulk of his thick frame keeping him from walking in without asking.

"You must be Mr. Tethras," he said, reaching up to scratch a chin that was in dire need of a shave, meeting Varric's eyes but not staying there, looking to the door, then the ground, and then to a clipboard hanging loosely in his hand. "I'm not here to see about your vodka, but I will want to check your liquor license--among other things."

"It's not every day the Kirkwall police is interested in my humble business." Varric opened the door wider and stepped to the side. "The license is just inside, framed in the foyer, as per city ordinance." Once through the door he flicked on the lights, bathing the room in a warm glow. "I do admit I haven't gotten around to switching to those new fluorescents yet," Varric said and tilted his head to look up at the officer, who was now squinting. Varric braced himself for the smell of alcohol when the man passed him up, raising a brow when it didn't come. "But as I understand it, that law doesn't go in effect for another month, is that correct Officer..."

"Huh?" From across the room, in front of the liquor license, the officer looked up from his clipboard. "Samson," he supplied, scratching his right shoulder with his free hand, digging into the sturdy grey fabric with more force than seemed necessary. The dark circles under his sunken eyes were more prominent in the bright lobby, and Varric eyed his badge with a little more care. "I have a search warrant here for copies of your employee records," he said, tugging a sheet of paper off of the clipboard and showing it to him.

"I'm afraid I can't read a thing without my glasses," Varric said with an easy smile. "They're in my office, along with the records. Would you mind staying here while I go and grab them?"

Samson hesitated, blinking glazed eyes and scratching his chin again. With sudden clarity, he shook his head. "You're going to need to show me where the records are stored too," he said, reaching for the walkie-talkie on his waist and bringing it to his ear as a garbled voice tumbled out of it.

"Walk this way then, Messere."

Though Varric listened closely while they walked, he couldn't make out a single word coming from the walkie-talkie. Samson seemed to--lulls in speech were met with noncommittal grunts or clear agreement. One yes ma'am was particularly cowed, leaving Varric wondering if he was talking to a commanding officer or a commanding significant other.

In his office, Samson stood just inside the door, his back to the wall, while Varric opened the desk drawer and extracted a small pair of reading glasses. He set them low on his nose, slowly, then looked over them at the warrant, taking care to keep watching Samson as he scratched his chin, his unfocused gaze flitting around the small room.

"This all looks to be in order," Varric said after skimming it, having seen enough search warrants and requests in the past six months to know The Nest was being targeted--though for what, he hadn’t the slightest idea. "I'm sure you can't say anything, but as a business owner, I like to be aware of who's working for me. There isn't anything I ought to be worried about in these files, is there?" He asked, tapping the tall filing cabinet next to his desk.

"I don--it's not up to me--" Samson turned and looked out into the hallway, his hand dropping to his belt opposite his walkie-talkie as the front door closed.

"I'm sure that's just one of my employees," Varric said, taking a deep breath while keeping the calm note to his voice. "Sometimes they show up early to rehearse."

"Rehearse what, serving drinks?" Samson snapped.

"It's a jazz club, Officer." Varric slowly lowered his hands onto the desk and held them there. "Sometimes the pianist likes to warm up a few hours before we open. Now let me just get these files for you and you can be out of here in no time," Varric said, his voice just on the trustworthy side of sly, all snake oil salesman with no suspicion. Samson relaxed, and Varric slowly let out a deep, long-held breath.

Once he finished photocopying the records and putting them in a manila envelope, all while making sure Samson could see, he led the officer to the front door. "I hope you'll come back sometime during business hours." Varric nearly laughed, but kept it just behind his tongue. "That vodka from the Anderfels is to die for."

"I don't think so," Samson said with a thin-lipped smile, made cadaverous by the tight skin over his hollow cheeks. "Just keep all your records, just in case."

"I always do, Messere. I wouldn't be a successful businessman if I didn't."

Samson grunted and moved to grasp the door handle, then stepped back, startled, when it pulled open before he got the chance. Standing just outside was Theron, his face making an impressively quick transformation from neutrality to shock. With a tightly set jaw, Theron stepped back from the door and gestured, somewhat grandly, at Samson.

"After you, Messere," he said, his white knuckles on the doorframe unnoticed by Samson as he shoved past, muttering to himself about elves and dwarves. Theron watched him, looking distinctly as though he wanted to spit on the ground after him, his face softening only when he seemed to remember Varric was standing just inside the lobby, watching him.

"That was one hell of a reaction to a drugged up cop, Red," Varric said as he beckoned Theron into the building. He watched as Theron hesitated, staring after Samson with an indecipherable expression on his placid face. When he turned it was gone, replaced again with a calm that Varric was beginning to suspect was one hell of a well constructed facade. "Something I ought to know?" he asked once he was inside.

"I'm not in trouble with the law, if that's what you're asking," Theron said slowly, his brow furrowed. "I just don't tend to trust police officers," he added, shrugging. "You know. The ears and all." Theron pinched the tip of one of his ears and wiggled it, warm light glinting off of the gold jewelry.

“Of course not, I wouldn’t have hired you if you were,” Varric said easily, locking the door with a quiet click. “How about a drink, Red?” He headed towards the bar without waiting for Theron to follow him. People came with you if they wanted to, and letting them think they were doing it because they chose to usually made them more amenable to anything you had to say. Varric only glanced back when he lifted the bar to duck under it, a small smile crossing his face to see Theron quietly trailing him.

Theron lifted himself onto a barstool while Varric produced a lowball glass from behind the bar and tossed ice cubes into it. “I have a shift later,” Theron said. “Are you sure you want me having a drink?”

“Worst you could do is drop a couple of cups, and so long as you sweep up the glass I’m not too bothered about that. I get these for a song,” he said, gesturing to the glass as he squeezed a lemon over the ice cubes. Theron smiled. It wasn’t something Varric saw him do often. “So we have a tradition around here, Red.” Varric ducked under the bar to grab a bottle of high end Fereldan whiskey and a cocktail shaker. “After working here for about two months, everyone decides they need to tell me their darkest secret.” Ice clicked loudly against the metal wall of the shaker. “Since you’ve been here two and a half, I figure you’re overdue.”

“And what if I don’t have any secrets?” Theron leaned an elbow onto the bar top while Varric added lemon and whiskey to the shaker, watching, resting his chin in his hand.

“Secrets keep us alive, Red.” Varric strained the drink into the glass, then pushed it across the bar towards Theron.

“More than you know,” said Theron, lifting the glass to toast the air before putting it to his lips.

He finished it in silence while Varric put away the lemons and whiskey, not moving from his seat when the phone in the kitchen rang and Varric excused himself to get it. When he returned, Theron was flipping a white business card over in his hand, his glass empty but for a couple of wet ice cubes.

“So what do you know about the history of magic?” He asked.

“We tried having a magician act here once, didn’t go over well. I’m still finding bits of dove in the rafters.” Varric grinned. “That’s a joke, Red.”

“There are four mages working in this establishment alone,” Theron continued. “Which is astounding. I’ve never seen a business that attracted them the way Hawke’s Nest does.” Theron placed the card onto the bar top and sat back. “At first I thought it was just the Hawke family, because of Bethany and Fabian, but you’ve got Anders and Merrill too, and there’s no real explanation for that.”

“Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me that Sunshine and Chuckles can, what, set people on fire with their mind?”

“Maybe. Not all mages are proficient with fire.” Theron shrugged slightly. “You don’t want to believe me, and that’s fine, but that officer who was sniffing around here was high on lyrium and it’s because of--”

“What exactly does an elf know about lyrium?” Varric interrupted him, narrowing his eyes. “If Bartrand’s up to his old tricks again he picked a bad time to get in my way.” Varric’s voice dipped into a dangerous place, but didn’t stay there when he saw the naked confusion blooming on Theron’s face. For a moment they just looked at one another, as if answers could be found by searching the other’s eyes hard enough.

“Maybe we ought to start over.” Varric grabbed two bottles of cream soda from the cooler under the bar, popping the tops on the built-in bottle opener, then offering one to Theron as he came around. “I don’t drink when I’m at work, so we’re going to have to make do with this.” He passed Theron’s bar stool and beckoned him, this time waiting in the hallway until he followed him to his office. He sat at his desk, waiting while Theron took the seat across from it. “So how about you tell me what you know about lyrium, and I tell you what I know about magic?” he asked patiently.

“Lyrium fuels magic, and the ability to nullify, which is why dwarves are still smuggling it to the GAA.” Theron turned the cold bottle around in his fingers, studying the label. “I take it this Bartrand is a smuggler?”

“Among other things,” Varric said, stifling a heavy sigh before taking a deep pull of vanilla soda. “So where are elves learning about lyrium? I haven’t even thought about it since the last time I heard from family on Orzammar.”

“Most elves would have no idea what you were talking about,” Theron admitted, leaning forward to set the bottle on Varric’s desk. He folded his hands in his lap and rested one foot on the opposite knee. “But I’ve been with the Mage Underground for ten years now, and one of the many things we deal with is lyrium addiction. What about you? What do you know about magic?”

“Less than you know about lyrium, it seems.” Varric frowned and opened the file cabinet next to him, flipping through the folders, closing it when he couldn’t find what he was looking for, and making a mental note to look at home. “All the books I’ve read always say that elves and humans were the ones ‘cursed’ by magic, not dwarves, and I can’t say my people are well versed in your history.”

“You are right about dwarves,” Theron said, unfolding his hands to take the business card out of his pocket again. “But there’s no past tense when it comes to magic. Just one hell of a successful cover up.” Closing his eyes, Theron leaned his head on the wall behind his seat. “So I guess that’s my big secret. I know that magic didn’t disappear, and I know how to help those who have the ability to use it.”

“And that cop?”

“With the Global Andrastian Alliance, like all the rest. High on lyrium and doing whatever his supervisors say so he can get more. He probably won’t even remember being here at the end of the day.” Standing, Theron closed the small distance between his seat and the desk to offer the blank business card to Varric. “Hand this to one of the four I mentioned earlier: Anders, Merrill, Fabian, or Bethany. It’s enchanted so it only shows any information when a mage is holding it, and I want you to see it happen for yourself. When you do, call the number and ask for Orsino, tell him who you are, and that I work for you.”

Varric took the rectangle of white cardstock, running a thumb over its smooth surface. “And what happens when I talk to this Orsino?”

“You either believe him or you don’t.” Theron shrugged. “And you either fire me or I keep washing dishes for you.”

“And why would I fire you, Red?” Varric asked, pressing the card onto the surface of his desk and covering it with one big hand.

“If you’re anything like the last person I worked for, you’ll do it because you think I’m crazy,” Theron answered and picked up the bottle by the neck. He offered Varric an exhausted smile. “Just give me some warning if you’re going to run me out of town.”

“Do you know how hard it is to get someone to work for minimum wage in this town, Red?” Varric said with a grin, getting to his feet, slipping the business card into his pocket while he did so. “Even if you were crazy, I couldn’t afford to fire you.” Theron’s bleak expression only improved slightly, and he nodded, taking his soda and leaving the office. He heard the front door after another moment, and made a mental note to make sure Merrill was coming in later, just in case Theron didn’t show. Then he picked up the phone.

“Hey Sunshine, it’s Varric. I need you to do me a favor.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

Fenris talked in his sleep.

After the bottle of burgundy wine, the slow kisses, and the gentle invitation, Fenris had relented, though good-naturedly, to Isabela's numerous requests that he stay the night. He slept in her bed mostly clothed, refusing to take off his shirt despite encouragement. Isabela didn't push, and in efforts to keep him comfortable, she went to bed up wearing a pair of pajamas that had been tucked into her bottom drawer, pleasantly surprised they still fit, having apparently been purchased over two years ago according to tag still pinned to the sleeve. After dozing off, Fenris curled into a tight, fetal ball on the right side of the bed, not uncurling even when he began to murmur softly. Twice, Isabela asked him to repeat himself before realizing he was no longer awake.

He spoke as dreamers often do, thick-tongued and awkward, drawing words out until she wasn't quite sure what he meant to say. But even without knowing what he said, she could tell that his dreams were restless. He said names she didn't recognize, and words that must have been in Tevinter for how foreign they sounded to her ears. He repeated the word "no" ad nauseum and twitched, his ears flattening much like a cat's, as he pulled himself into a tighter ball, worming his head under the blanket in the process. Before an hour passed, Isabela realized she wasn't going to be able to sleep next to him. Resting a gentle hand on the ball of elf under her covers, she rose and walked silently into the living room, leaving the door to her room partially cracked as an afterthought. He might sleep through the night, but if he didn't, the dim light from the hall would help remind him where he was.

She could hear the whine of distant sirens when she entered the living room with a pillow under her arm, barely noticing the familiar sound. The first six months after moving in, that noise had threatened to drive her insane, lifting her to her feet to empty the stash box she no longer had just in case they stopped at her door. Now they were just another noise of the night, like the screeching on the corner with the broken street light, or the soft glass tinkle of the neighbor's wind chime. She laid on the couch while the sirens faded and were eventually replaced by the soft rush of infrequent cars passing down her street.

Isabela woke with a start six hours later, having drifted off before she realized she was tired, alerting to the distant jangle of her cell phone on the bedside table. Her back ached from the couch, though not as badly as when she used to sleep in her car, and by the time she got to her feet, the phone had silenced. On the off-chance that the sound hadn't woken Fenris, she crept quietly into her bedroom, losing her breath at the sight when she opened the door.

Sometime during the night, Fenris had worked his way out of his shirt and kicked the blankets to the end of the bed. He now laid on his stomach on the right side of the bed, lit by the golden sunlight seeping in through the blinds. In his stillness, with his tense limbs finally relaxed, he had the mein of a sleeping jungle cat--an image only strengthened by the white tattoos wrapping around his arms and legs. It was the scars on his back though, old and raised and extensive, that stuck Isabela's breath in her throat. Each long, white line was explanation etched into his dark skin: the way he flinched when she touched him, the compact, controlled way in which he held his body, always careful not to brush against someone unintentionally, the strange way in which he looked at those who were free with their touch.

Quietly she grabbed her phone and left the room, a guilty thud in her chest as she looked at the screen. There were no missed calls.

For a half an hour she sat at the kitchen table, writing texts to Marian and deleting them, paralyzed by the knowledge that she had stolen something that was his to give, not hers to take. No matter what configuration of words Isabela typed, they felt wrong, and she realized that she'd have to talk to Marian face to face to even begin explaining what was going through her mind. Giving up on the phone, Isabela began looking through the fridge for breakfast. Inspired, for the first time, to use the pancake griddle that had been underneath her stove since moving in, she spent longer than she suspected was necessary in mixing the boxed batter, remembering half-way through that it had been more than six years since she last made breakfast for herself that wasn't cereal or fruit.

Fenris woke slowly to the scent of burning dough, wrinkling his nose before pressing his face into the pillow. It was the subtle sweetness of Isabela's perfume, still clinging to the pillowcase, that reminded him that he wasn't home, and he sat up in a drowsy haze, blinking in silent confusion at the blankets piled on the floor. He found his shirt under the pillow and sighed lightly at himself as he put it on. "I'm being a fool," he muttered under his breath.

Varric said she would understand, but Varric had never seen his scars, or heard the whole story behind them.

He found Isabela in the kitchen, beautiful as ever and burning pancakes. He pressed his lips firmly together in an attempt to stifle the laugh threatening to spill out.

"You need to flip those sooner," he said softly, and Isabela jolted, the spatula clattering onto the floor.

"I didn't know you'd gotten up," she said sheepishly as she retrieved the spatula and took it to the sink. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, but it looks like you should have--these are all burnt."

"Oh, you can do better, can you?" Isabela gave him a clean spatula and gestured grandly towards the griddle. "Then by all means, make pancakes," she said, a glimmer of challenge in her eyes. Fenris smiled and drew her close for an affectionate kiss, surprising himself with how much seemed to have changed overnight. He felt real desire for her now, recognizing it buried deep under the years of running and tattoo needles, and he stared at the batter for one confused moment, unsure of what to do with the sudden knowledge that he still had the capacity to want. Mechanically he poured four even circles of pancake batter onto the griddle, watching them for bubbles.

"You cheat," Isabela said from his side where she watched him. "You've done this before!"

"I worked as a line cook at a diner in Nevarra." He glanced at her briefly as he spoke. "Then as a sous chef in a restaurant in Wildervale, though that title was greatly inflated."

"I had no idea," she said with genuine interest. "Was this after you left Tevinter?"

"Yes," he said tersely. Bubbles had begun to appear in the center of the pancakes, and he wiggled the spatula carefully underneath one to flip it.

"Fenris, I saw your back," Isabela said in a rush. "I'm sorry," she added when he tensed and dropped the pancake mid-flip, watching it smear across the hot griddle. "I wasn't trying to, but your shirt was off, and I just--"

"You don’t need to apologize,"he said with a furrow of his brow, taking in a long breath as he flipped the other cakes carefully. "I would have shown you when--when I was ready."

"Still, I'm sorry I saw before you were."

"No, perhaps this is better." He slid three light, fluffy pancakes onto the plate sitting near the griddle, then poured out two more. "I have wanted to say something to you about my reticence." He turned to her, his face serious. "You are a beautiful woman, and I fear that I may have seemed less interested than I am."

"You spent the night," she said, gently encouraging him to continue.

"Yes, and you must understand that is more than I have done with another since leaving Hadriana."

"She did that to you, didn't she?"

"Yes," he said with a sigh. "And I allowed her to, at first, at least." There was silence as he finished cooking the last two pancakes and turned off the griddle. Before making the batter, Isabela had sliced strawberries and found syrup in her pantry, and the two of them sat at the table with pancakes and fruit. Fenris didn't eat right away, instead staring at the plate with a frown.

"At first, it felt like a game," he began. "I enjoyed the pain, then; I found it exciting." He looked at his hands, at the white tattoos that traveled from each nail bed and up his wrists. "I realize now that she never thought of it as..." He struggled for the word, clenching his teeth when he found it. "She never thought of what we did as intimacy. It was only appealing to her when I began to fear her."

Silently, Isabela reached across the table to take his hand.

"When I became afraid of her, she changed. She was violent--unrecognizable. I did love her once, and I think that is why I stayed as long as I did, though I regret each day." Fenris squeezed her hand. "She told me she would kill me if I defied her, and I believe she would have, had I stayed much longer." Finally, with his voice low and cracking, he managed to say what he had not said to another soul since escaping, "She tried once."

Isabela upset the bottle of syrup when she stood, letting it roll in a lazy semicircle around the table while crouched near Fenris' chair, taking his hands in hers and holding them tight. She said his name, and when he opened his eyes, he felt a weight lifted from the darkness. "This was seven ago, and I still feel it in my blood every night," he whispered. Isabela stood and hugged him carefully, an arm over his shoulders but touching the chair instead of his back, the other cradling his head to her chest. Fenris could hear her heart as long moments passed, and he pulled from her with an awkward smile. "Your breakfast is getting cold."

"Oh, sod the breakfast!"

"I'd rather we actually ate." Fenris brushed her hair out of her face with careful fingertips. "Just let this be a morning."

Taking her seat across from him again, Isabela righted the syrup bottle and spooned a pile of sliced strawberries onto her pancakes. "I do understand, Fenris, more than you could know." He glanced at her over the table, his dark brows furrowed slightly.

"Your husband?"

"I chose to live in my car and eat from dumpsters rather than spend another day with him," she said, spearing a strawberry on her fork and using it to gesture at Fenris. "I would have left anyway, but he considered it his ' _right as a husband_ '," she said, making mocking air quotes around the fork, "to force himself on a fifteen year old girl." Fenris put down his fork, frowning. "We don't have to bring this up again, but everything I went through after leaving Rivain was my choice--no matter how bad it was, no matter how many mistakes I made. Whatever she did to you, she doesn't own you." Isabela smiled, and spread her hands in a vague _that's all_ gesture. "Now eat your pancakes before they get cold, unless you want me to make you more."

"An effective threat," he teased, but set upon his plate with renewed hunger, silent until it was empty. He then stood and rounded the table to where Isabela sat, still picking at her pancakes, and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "I do adore you," he said softly, resting his forehead gently to hers. "I do not deserve your patience.

"Isn't it wonderful that you don't get to choose what I deem worthy of waiting for?" Isabela asked, a smile in her warm eyes, and Fenris laughed, taking her kiss when it was offered. In the distance, a siren droned, and neither of them heard it.


	17. Chapter 17

It was not supposed to be necessary to wash dishes by hand at The Hawke's Nest. The building came with a commercial dishwasher with space for 30 glasses to be placed inside its rack. When the heavy metal lid was closed, steaming water and industrial detergent would clean the dishes in the space of three minutes--providing it was functioning properly. Not once since Theron started had it worked without a significant amount of swearing and struggling, and by the third night, he resigned himself to washing each glass by hand. Despite the ill-fitting rubber gloves and the harsh odor of grease-dissolving soap, it was not unbearable. He earned decent pay for minimal work, and the position gave him the opportunity to keep an eye on the Hawke's Nest and its many mages.

From what he could tell, Anders was the only one who had any idea what mages were capable of. Merrill was sweet and shy, but clumsy. She brought Theron at least one broken glass a night, sometimes along with a bleeding finger that required him to lower the temperature of the water so she could clean it out. She smelled like ozone and ocean, and the tips of his ears crackled when she was near. Bethany was smoother, softer, and kept her composure under situations that would have brought Merrill sobbing to her knees. When it was chilly, she was surrounded by radiant heat befitting her nickname. As for Fabian, he had charm, and could have been dangerous had he known what he was doing with it. His attention was focused too narrowly on Jethann for him to realize that sometimes his fingertips glowed. They were all imbued with incredible power and completely ignorant of it.

While he was plunged forearm deep in hot sudsy water, scrubbing sticky chocolate from a dessert plate, Theron felt someone brush against his back. Thinking it was one of the servers, he stepped forward to lean against the counter and out of their way, only to be pinned between the sink and the body behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. He could smell Anders' cologne, earthy musk with nebulous woody undertones and a hint of tobacco, familiar scents that brought with them the sense memory of his kiss, driving up his pulse until he felt it thumping in his ears. Anders pressed his lips to his temple as he drew him near, and Theron relaxed against him, drawn to the firm reality of the body under his suit.

"Come home with me tonight," Anders murmured, his mouth hard against Theron's ear. At the warmth of his breath and the amorous brush of his hips, Theron gripped the slick sides of the sink and shuddered.

"I'd like that," Theron replied softly, his eyes sliding shut. "But it's a sauna in here, and I really need a shower."

"Fortunately, my apartment comes equipped with a bathtub. It's very fancy, I know, but there's more than enough room for two, not like that airplane bathroom you have at your place." Anders tucked his nose into the crook of Theron's neck. "We could shower, or maybe take a bath, get take out, share a bottle of wine, and relax. Maybe I could play for you."

"I hear you play every night." Theron tilted his head to the side to give him better access to his neck, warm and pliable, his flushed ears twitching.

"Not for you." 

"It's a very tempting offer."

"If that's not enough to persuade you, I could promise to show you what a pianist can do with his fingers when he's not at the piano." With his voice low, he tightened his arms around Theron's waist, holding him firm. "For as long as you could possibly want."

Theron let his surroundings drift away on the movement of Anders' lips on his neck and the charged promise in his words, releasing persistent thoughts of contacting Orsino and letting Zevran know he had a place to stay next week . "How could I say no?" He asked with a smile. Anders gave him a squeeze before releasing him.

The double doors to the bar swung open as Varric sauntered through, making a loud noise of mock disgust when Anders adjusted his belt after stepping away from Theron. "Now that's funny, here I thought I walked into the kitchen at my place of business, not the honeymoon suite at the Jewel of Orlais." Varric sighed, shaking his head. "Between you two and Chuckles, I'm going to have to hire someone just to make sure anything gets done while I'm tending bar." There was humor in Varric's eyes, and Anders flashed him a sheepish smile before slinking back out to the stage. "So Waffles was right," he said, addressing Theron. "You and Blondie do have a thing going on."

"Waffles?"

"My fiancée, Marian. You're going to be lost if you don't pick up the nicknames soon, Red." Theron nodded and returned to the sink, lifting out a washed dish and rinsing it with the extendable faucet. "You're not in trouble, if that's what you think. The only policy I have on dating co-workers is that you do it on your own time."  
"That's fair," Theron said with his back to Varric, his ears flattened in embarrassment despite Varric's nonchalance.

"We're family here, Red. Those of us who aren't related by blood are too close for it to matter, and we're all glad to see Blondie moving on. He's had somewhat of a rocky romantic history, but I'm sure he'd rather tell you himself." Merrill passed through the doors with a tray of glasses--all unbroken--and set them on the counter next to the sink. "Join me in my office for a minute, would you?" Varric asked when Merrill was gone, beckoning Theron when he reached for the dishes. He removed his gloves and followed Varric down the small hallway to his office. On the other side of the wall there was music and murmuring--a full crowd, from the sound of it, and the electricity in the air was the same static charge that had drawn Theron in on the first night he came in.

With the door closed behind them, Varric sat at his desk and gestured for Theron to sit across from him, sliding a familiar white rectangle across the desk when he did. "I thought you might want your card back."

"That's not necessary--I have a lot of them."

"Strangest thing I've ever seen," he said with a furrow of his brow. He picked the card up and held it loosely between his big thumb and forefinger. "As soon as Sunshine touched it, all the information you said would be there suddenly was. And you say that's because of her connection to--what did you call it?"

"The Fade, or the Beyond, as the old Dalish tales say," said Theron calmly, used to explaining himself multiple times while people got the gist. "It's where mages draw their power, and where we go when we dream."

"You do know dwarves don't dream, right?"

"Yes, although I'm surprised surface dwarves don't. It's the stone and the lyrium that blocks your connection to the Fade--from what I understand," Theron mused, sitting straight with his hands folded politely in his lap. "But you really should call the number on the card--I'm just a field agent."

"I did, actually, and had a long conversation with a very patient man." Varric tented his fingers and touched them to his lips. "I think I understand about as much as I'm going to, but need to ask you one thing, Red."

Theron wrinkled his brow, having seen many of these confrontations in his time with the Underground, though Varric appeared to be gentler about it than most. "It's not necessary, Mr. Tethras. I'll finish up my shift, and you won't have to see me again."

"What? Red, I'm not firing you."

For a long moment they looked at one another over the desk, surprised that they'd managed to surprise the other. "Then what?" asked Theron.

"We're family, Red, and I want to know if you can keep my family safe." Varric sat back in his chair. "I'm getting married in two weeks. I'll be out of town for a week and a half, for the honeymoon. Orsino told me you're the best he has, and I need you to make sure Merrill and Sunshine are okay while Waffles and I are gone. Now I trust Chuckles to fend for himself, and I know you'll have your eye on Blondie, considering the way I saw you two--" He stopped mid sentence when Theron, flushing hotter than when Anders had held him in the kitchen, pressed his face into his hands and took a long breath.

"Sir--"

"I've told you, Red. It's Varric."

"Varric," he said, correcting the knee-jerk desire to appear deferential to his employers. "I'm...flattered that you would trust me so much when we've only known one another for a few months now, but what you are asking isn't within my capabilities. All I have is research, data, and the ability to discern the potential for magic."

"Orsino says different. Look, I'm not asking for miracles. I just want you to look out for them while I'm gone. Whatever you think of your qualifications, you're all I've got." Varric walked to the small bookshelf across his office, taking a binder from a shelf at eye level. He placed it on the desk and opened it, and Theron realized it wasn't a binder, but a photo album. He slid it toward Theron and pointed to the single picture in the center of the first page. Theron leaned in to look at it, recognizing the facade of The Hawke's Nest even without the iconic sign. Marian and Varric were in the center of the picture, Varric holding what appeared to be the remote shutter button for the camera while Marian kissed the top of his head. On either side of them stood Merrill, Bethany, Isabela, Anders, and several dark-haired men Theron didn't recognize.

"You're new here, Red, I get that," Varric said. "But when I say family, I don't mean it as some kind of tool to raise my employees' morale. I only hire people I care about or have a good feeling about, and the latter tends to become the former pretty quickly. Now, I didn't need to talk to Orsino or know that the address on your resume leads to the RV park up Sundermount to understand that you're on your own out here, but you belong at The Nest or else you wouldn't be here to begin with." Softly, Varric closed the album.

Sitting back in the chair, Theron looked down at his folded hands, examining the soft white scar that was all that remained of Anders inadvertantly setting him on fire. "What did Orsino say about me?" he asked, his reserved speech more clipped than normal.

"Probably more than you would have liked, and enough to let me know that you _should_ be in a lot of trouble with the law. But as you can see, despite your colorful past, I'm not interested in firing you. We're all 'colorful' around here Red, ask around and you'll see what I mean." Theron glanced up from his hands to see Varric returning the album to its place on the shelf. "If you need time to think, it's still two weeks until the wedding."

"No, I..." Theron stood and reached up to worry at the earrings on one ear, a thoughtful smile on his placid face as he spoke to Varric, but looked past him, dropping his gaze nervously to the floor when Varric caught his eyes. "I'll make sure nothing happens. I have a favor I can call in."

"I'm really glad to hear that," Varric said with a grin.

"I should get back to the dishes."

"Of course, of course." With a careless wave of his hand, Varric opened the office door to allow Theron to leave, closing it behind him only after he watched him turn the corner. Theron stopped on his way to the bar, looking out over the crowd sitting at their tables, his sensitive ears picking up not just the clink of glasses but whole conversations--praise for the drinks, praise for Isabela's cleavage, praise for Anders' piano, and soft suggestions of what to do after leaving the club. A set had just finished when Anders came to invite him over, and now the grand piano and microphone stand sat silent on the darkened stage. Even without the music, there was the soothing ghost of melody in the air, winding around tables along with Merrill and Fabian, glistening on the rims of drinks Fenris expertly mixed. Quiet applause rolled through the audience as the lights rose on the stage, and Theron leaned against the bar to watch Isabela and Anders, feeling a twinge of deja vu though his vantage point was different from the first night he'd come to watch Anders play.

Anders brushed back the tails of his jacket as he sat at the piano bench, waiting for the applause to stop before playing the first few bars of some jazz standard Theron couldn't place. The energy of the crowd moved with it, mellow at first, then open and excited as Isabela, wearing a glittering red gown, stepped into the spotlight. She began to sing, and in doing so helped Theron place the melody. It was _Witchcraft_ , and Theron chuckled quietly as he returned to the kitchen to finish his shift.


	18. Chapter 18

Bethany sat with her back against the wall, worrying a cloth napkin between her busy hands, her leg jittering as she repeatedly glanced at the hostess podium, looking for the familiar, handsome face she wasn't sure she'd see. Her mind was alight, spinning dizzily between the bizarre conversation she'd had with Nathaniel months before, and the small white business card Varric had asked her to touch. Varric had little to say about the words that bled onto the card when she pressed her finger to the corner, and that only worried her more. There were few subjects that could render Varric speechless, and business cards--even strange ones--was not one of them. If Varric's reticence wasn't worrisome enough, the word _mage_ had stood out in stark relief, clutching a handful of Bethany's gut and twisting it violently.

She called Nathaniel as soon as she was outside of the Nest, chewing on her lip as she walked down the near-empty street, holding her phone to her ear. It rang repeatedly, then went to voicemail so swiftly that she went blank, stammering dumbly at the recording of Nathaniel's familiar voice. _I need you to call me_ was all she could manage before jabbing the end call button and lifting her hand to her mouth, biting down on her thumbnail with no thought to the meticulously applied cherry-red polish.

Nathaniel returned her call a week later, apologizing for the wait, explaining that he had been taking part in an extensive training program and wasn't allowed to make any phone calls until it was over. He said he couldn't explain it on the phone, and asked if she could meet him for lunch at the Imperial Road Diner so he could apologize and update her on his and Carver's training. She sat there now, in the back corner, distracted by Sigrun as she wound around tables with a carafe of coffee in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other.

Nathaniel arrived a half hour later than he'd said he would, apologizing profusely, blaming it on a late bus and an accident on the Imperial Highway that had traffic backed up to Sundermount. He sat across from Bethany, unable to do more than apologize for his tardiness before Sigrun was at his side with a notepad, ready to take his drink order. He asked for coffee, and she zipped off, across the room and leaning against a booth as she checked in on the two elves sitting there, enjoying slices of pie and ice cream.

"I really must apologize for not returning your call," Nathaniel said with a weak smile. "If I had the choice, I would have done so immediately."

"Why are they keeping you from contacting people?" Bethany asked, a note of blatant suspicion high in her voice. She twisted the napkin again, and Nathaniel gently reached across the table to touch her shaking hands.

"It was just a training exercise. I can't tell you much, but they were testing how well we respond under stress. You don't want an officer accidentally shooting an innocent man because they're so nervous they think he might be pulling a gun when he's just reaching for his wallet." She released the napkin and took a hand in his, squeezing tenderly. "You were worried about me?"

"I'm worried for us all," she said softly, brows furrowing. "Are they still trying to drug you?"

Nathaniel's face darkened and his gaze dropped. "I haven't been taking the 'vitamins', but they're still on my plate three times a day. It's the damndest thing--"

"Is Carver taking them?"

"I told him I thought it was strange--"

"Please, is he taking them?"

"Yes," Nathaniel said with a frown as Bethany sighed and put her head in her hands, taking her hand from him. "Bethy," he said tenderly. "What's going on?"

Sigrun interrupted with the coffee, placing the carafe on the trivet in the middle of the tablet before taking off again, this time to the kitchen to yell something incomprehensible at the cook. Bethany sat up, pressed her lips together, and took a deep, shuddering breath through her nose before she continued.

"The last time we spoke you told me that you thought your superiors were having one on about magic and mages," she said, strength in her voice despite her disturbed mien. He nodded. "What if they aren't?"

"You can't be serious. It's a prank, is what it is."

"Has anyone mentioned something called the 'Mage Underground' to you?" she asked, and Nathaniel's eyes widened slightly before his face crumpled in thought. He propped his head on his fist and rapped his knuckles lightly on the table.

"Did Carver put you up to this?" he asked, one brow lifting.

"I haven't spoken to Carver since the last time he was at the Nest. You have heard of it, haven't you?"

Nathaniel sat up straight and reached for the carafe of coffee. He carefully poured himself a mug and took a sip, deep in thought. "I've heard it mentioned. Some kind of...I don't know...organization that keeps criminals from seeing justice, according to the literature. Run by some secret cabal--it's nonsense! Just more proof that they think they're so clever that we're just going to swallow this without questioning it. I think it's a test, myself. What better way to see who's a leader and who's a follower, than telling them something insane and keeping track of how you respond?"

"I have a business card with that name on it, Nathaniel." Bethany slipped her hand into her pocket and took it out, pushing it across the table without taking her hand off of it. "I stole it from Varric, and I'm afraid he'll be angry if he finds out, but I'm more worried about the implications of this." He took the card, blinking in confusion when the lettering faded.

"Is this some sort of party trick?" he asked, and she lifted her hand to his, pinching the card in her fingers, watching him watch the letters appear again. "What in the bloody Void?" he murmured, then glanced up at her. "Where did Varric get this?"

"He wouldn't say," she said and let go again, raking back her hair nervously as she noticed Sigrun watching them from across the room, likely waiting for when they were ready to order. "He only said that the person who gave it to him said only certain people could make it 'work'." Nathaniel frowned and said nothing. "Nate," she said, pleading, and he met her eyes. "If this is supposed to have something to do with mages, why does the information only appear when I touch the card?"

\----

Across town, in Merrill's small apartment, Carver Hawke sat in a battered armchair, his eyes on Merrill as she stood on her toes to reach a book on the top shelf. His stomach was wobbly again, and under his uniform he was covered in a clammy sweat, but neither of those conditions did much to stem the wildfire in his gut when he fixed his eyes on Merrill's pert rear. He swallowed and looked out the window.

"I was thinking we could watch this, you know, if you like old movies. Do you like movies at all?" Merrill rambled, holding an old VHS tape in her hands, showing him the cover of a movie that had been popular some thirty years prior--hence the outdated technology.

"Movies are fine," he croaked, then cleared his throat. "Can we open a window?"

"Are you warm? I'm so sorry. The temperature in here is always strange, and I can never get it just right." She handed him the tape before crossing the small room to reach the only window and, with more effort than opening a window often took, turned the little crank and shoved it outward. "There. You should cool down a little bit now. Would you like a glass of water?"

He nodded, and stared as she moved to the little kitchenette, humming contentedly as she pulled out a chipped glass and turned on the faucet. She just stood there for a moment, watching the water run out, scratching the back of her calf with her opposite foot before she filled the glass. He had never noticed before how nice her legs were, and now he couldn't think of anything else. He covered his face with his hand and took in a deep breath, trying to tamp down either the inappropriate lust or the nausea in his stomach.

Merrill handed him the glass of water. "The pipes are a bit rusty," she explained. "But I let it run long enough so your water shouldn't taste funny." She reached for the movie that he'd laid in his lap, and he grabbed her wrist, swallowing hard, looking up into her wide green eyes, head swimming. "Carver?" she asked, cocking her head to the side like a curious puppy. He let her go and forced a smile.

"Just missed seeing you," he said and offered her the movie. Her ears flushed bright pink and twitched twice.

"You know, I was sort of thinking you might not like me. I'm not very good at telling how people feel sometimes, especially humans. Your ears don't do anything and it's very difficult to tell what you think from your face alone," Merrill said, chewing her soft pink lip. "But I'm so glad you're here." Carver raised a confused hand to his ears as she wormed out of his grasp to squat in front of the old picture tube television, pressing the tape into the built-in VCR. Once the screen had flickered to life and the movie was rolling, she pulled down the shade in front of the open window, not blocking the air, but covering the glare on the screen enough so Carver could see previews for movies starring actors and actresses he'd never heard of. He put the glass to his lips and drank deeply of the cool water, relief washing over him as it seemed to calm his angry stomach. While the movie started, Merrill dragged a plush footstool next to his chair and sat on it, her slim legs folded underneath her.

"I'm sorry I don't have a sofa or anything," she said quietly, as if she'd be disturbing other viewers if she raised the volume of her voice. "I've been looking for a loveseat in the classifieds, but I haven't seen any that I could afford."

"Doesn't Varric pay you well enough?"

"Oh! He does!" Merrill beamed. "He gave me a raise when I came back, and I didn't deserve that at all after quitting to work at that awful co-op. But there's a new dishwasher and I serve customers now. Sometimes I even get tips!"

Carver smiled. Merrill smelled like fresh earth and ozone when she was this close, and he found it comforting. A garbled, half-remembered line about the smell of rain or sulfur from one of the training packets ran through his head, but was gone before he could grasp it. He swallowed, staring at Merrill's pink ear as she leaned against his chair, intently watching the screen. "But you can't afford a couch?"

"The rent here is very high," she said with a frown. "I know it's not a very nice part of town, but most landlords don't want to rent to elves, and they'll come up with any excuses they can to refuse your rental application." Merrill shrugged. "It's not bad here. The locks are good and I've never had anything stolen. I have enough money for food and such, so I don't much mind."

"That's not really fair." Carver frowned. "What about the non-discrimination laws?"

Merrill rolled her eyes. "They don't say 'we won't rent to you because you're an elf.' They check your credit, or your employment history, and come up with a way to say you're too risky of a tenant." Merrill shrugged. "I know it's not fair, but it's what I have."

Carver looked at his hands, his head was clearing, almost as if his sympathy had broken through the fog. "I could send you a little money when I get back to the academy. I've got plenty."

"No," she said firmly, and put her hand lightly on his arm. "I like you very much, Carver Hawke, but I can take care of myself and I don't want handouts simply because things are more difficult for me." Her touch was electric, and his head fogged again, everything muddled and he nodded dumbly when she slipped her hand down his arm to lace her fingers with his. He lolled his head back to stare at the water-damaged ceiling while the movie played in the background, muffled by the angry pounding of his blood between his ears. He squeezed her small hand, searching for something solid but not finding it, accosted by the sudden thought that if he could just get back to the academy everything would be fine. He could have dinner, go to bed, and in the morning he'd be alright. He leaned over the arm of the chair and rested his head on her shoulder, pressing his nose to her soft neck, needing something he couldn't place, feeling sick and aching and confused, but soothed, for the moment, by her arm snaking around his big shoulders. She stroked the hair at the base of his neck and he closed his eyes and sighed, grounding himself on the light brush of her fingernails against his skin and holding on the best he could.

"Merrill?" he asked softly, wanting to tell her--to tell _someone_ \--about the rollercoaster he'd been riding since joining the academy, about the bizarre tests and the pills that made him feel strong, then sick, then desperate. But when she questioned him lightly, he couldn't find the words. "Thanks for inviting me," he said finally, and she turned and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"You're always welcome here." She put her finger over his lips. "Now hush. I like this part."

He quieted, still resting his head against her neck, and this time when he closed his eyes, he slipped into a fever dream, not hearing her when she asked if he was alright.


End file.
